


Under the Hood

by SerBridgetDock



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Robin Hood AU, Slow Burn, cathmir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerBridgetDock/pseuds/SerBridgetDock
Summary: Catherine loves her city. Though Zanado may not be her home, she loves it here. It's why she became the sheriff. It's why she works with the Triumvirate. It's why when the notorious Robin Hood shows up, she puts herself on the front lines to try and stop the thief. How was she supposed to know it would lead to this?Shamir never meant to become a thief. She never meant to somehow become a "symbol of hope for the people" whatever that means. She only ever wanted a bit of gold and to help people. How was she supposed to know it would lead to this?
Relationships: Catherine/Shamir Nevrand, Cyril & Shamir Nevrand, Gilbert Pronislav & Catherine
Comments: 19
Kudos: 38





	1. That Hood Fellow

**Author's Note:**

> i came up with this AU while doing research for my other fic. i found that in almost all of shamir's paired endings, she essentially becomes the robin hood of fodlan. and i think it'd be great if catherine was the sheriff tasked with taking her down. so uh... yeah. here we are
> 
> come say hi on twitter/instagram (@bridgetserdock) or on tumblr (@bridgetserdocksketches)

The carriage had been overturned. But before it was turned over, the horse’s harness had been severed so that it didn’t get hurt or injured when the carriage tipped. The two guards that had manned the carriage were barely injured. The taller one’s helm had been pulled down in front of his face before he was ensnared in a net. The shorter was tripped from behind and wrapped up in a tangle of vines and bolas. Otherwise, both were completely unharmed. Even the occupant of the carriage was more or less unharmed. He had a nice bump and a decently sized scrape on his forehead, but otherwise he was okay. Which is why his complaints about his state of affairs are even more insufferable.

“You’re the sheriff, aren’t you? You’re supposed to be protecting people like me from stuff like this!” He shouts.

Catherine has to fight the urge to roll her eyes before laying her gaze on the stout man. “You were travelling on a quiet road through the woods  _ outside _ the city of Zanado. What makes you think I, or anyone else within the city, would’ve known you were in trouble?”

“Well you sure got here fast enough once that scout found us!”

“Yeah. That’s what the scouts are for. To find people in need outside the city.” She presses a palm to her forehead. She takes in a deep breath before lowering her hand again. She forces a smile and looks at the merchant again. “Can you tell me what happened? Please.”

“We were ambushed by that… hood fellow. And his band of miscreants.” The merchant’s chest rises dramatically as he throws his hands about in some weird circular motion. As if that’s supposed to mean something to Catherine.

“Robin Hood, you mean?” Catherine asks.

“If that’s his name, then yes. He came in out of nowhere, scared off my horse, took out my guards, and tipped my carriage! And then he had the gall to tell me to hand over all my gold or he’d gut me.”

Catherine blinks at him.  _ Had the gall _ ? Robin Hood was very clearly robbing this merchant. It wasn’t that he had the gall to decide to rob him after doing all of that. The robbery was the whole aim of this entire endeavor. Was that truly lost on this merchant?

“How much gold did they make off with?” Catherine asks.

“Forty thousand gold,” the merchant snickers with a shake of his head. His gaze rakes over Catherine with a lecherous sneer. “More than you’ve probably ever seen in your life.”

Catherine manages to not follow his gaze. She does not want to know what he could mean by that simply from looking at her. “And how many bandits did you say there were?”

The merchant huffs. “Enough to tip my carriage with me in it.”

_ So a fair amount _ . “But did you see how many bandits there were?”

“No! I only saw that hood fellow.”

“Robin Hood,” Catherine corrects, trying to not sound as irritated as she is.

“Whatever.”

Catherine sighs. “Did your guards happen to see anything else?”

“You can ask them, but no they didn’t. They were too busy pissing away my hard earned money to notice anything.”

Catherine contorts her face into a facsimile of a smile. “Thank you for being so forthcoming and accommodating.” The lie feels like acid on her tongue. “We’re just going to have a quick look around and see if there’s anything your guards might’ve missed and then we’ll be out of your hair.”

Catherine turns on the spot and stalks off toward the overturned carriage where Gilbert stands. She needs to put as much distance between herself and this merchant. Now.

“Will there be some sort of compensation for my loss?” He calls after her.

She’s halfway between the merchant and the cart. Close enough for Gilbert to see the scowl on her face. He arches a brow at her, but says no more.

Catherine takes a deep steadying breath before turning around. She stares down her nose at the plump merchant whom she could cut down in one second flat should she so desire it. “You may file an official complaint with the Triumvirate, should you feel compensation necessary. Otherwise, no. But seeing as you are able to travel with forty thousand gold and you don’t seem to be too concerned by the prospect of paying your guards tomorrow, I’d imagine it wouldn’t be necessary. At least, that the Triumvirate would think it’s not.”

She doesn’t relish the man’s pale visage as much as she’d like to. Seeing him fearful isn’t nearly as satisfying as putting the fear of the Goddess in him might be. But she’s the sheriff now. She can’t just do that anymore. Not without just cause, at least.

So instead, Catherine simply walks over to where Gilbert stands. She keeps her back to the merchant to not see whatever gaze he’s laying over her now. She crosses her arms and looks to Gilbert.

“Find anything worthwhile?” she asks.

The older man nods. He lifts his hand up to show off a folded piece of paper. “This was stuck to the wheel.”

Catherine reaches out to grab for it.

The paper is small, no larger than her palm (of course she does have rather large palms). It’s quality paper, too. The kind that the Triumvirate and other nobles and leaders of Fodlan use. Not the kind one would accidentally get stuck to a carriage wheel. On one side of the paper is an overly detailed drawing of a spider, so detailed it looks as if it might come off the page. On the other side is a list of crimes:

Money laundering. Adultery. Bribery. Blackmail. Rape.

That last one sets Catherine’s blood aflame. She can feel the sword at her hip vibrate in reaction to her emotions. She comports her face into one of control.

“Where did you say this guy was from?” She asks.

Gilbert’s gaze slides over to where the man is still complaining loudly. “Gloucester territory.”

Catherine nods. “We’ll want to send a letter to Count Gloucester with a copy of this list. See if they can find any proof.”

Gilbert’s eyes flash to Catherine. They widen dramatically. “You don’t actually believe Robin Hood is only attacking criminals, do you?”

Catherine shrugs. “There are rumors that he does. No one’s been able to prove it so far. But I don’t want to rule it out if this guy--” her thumb jabs over her shoulder at the loud merchant. “--did all of this.” She flashes the note in front of Gilbert again. “If it’s wrong, no harm no foul. But if it’s true, do you really want to be the one who let that creep go?”

Gilbert recomposes himself. He glances at the merchant again, the faintest hint of a scowl on his face. “No, I don’t.”

“Great.” Catherine hands the note back over to Gilbert. He puts it away in a leather pouch at his hip. “Let’s get out of here before he decides to ask for anything else. Like an escort all the way back to his territory.”

Gilbert hmms in response.

Despite Gilbert’s years of experience and just overall years on Catherine, it’s still up to her to say goodbye to the merchant. One of the many downsides to being the Sheriff of Zanado. The only people she answers to are the Triumvirate. Outside of them, she’s completely in charge. She can’t defer to anyone else or pass off responsibility. It’s all on her. It was something she relished when she first accepted the position. But now, now as she has to go speak with this boisterous rat of a man, now as she has to be the one in charge in the face of a probably licentious criminal, now as she couldn’t just let Gilbert handle this limp-willed excuse for a merchant, now she’s not all that thrilled about being the sheriff.

As Gilbert preps their horses, Catherine makes the long walk back over the short, plump man. She attempts a smile, but knows it falls short before the merchant even looks at her, so she does away with it.

“Thank you for your time once again,” Catherine says. She pauses a moment longer than she should as she searches for the merchant’s name. When it doesn’t present itself, she barrels ahead. “We have some officers coming to help you right your carriage. Hopefully Robin Hood and his ilk haven’t left the area yet and we’ll be able to catch them and you’ll get the reparations you deserve.”  _ Which is to say none _ .

The merchant’s chest rises dramatically. He lifts his chin indignantly. “Am I to feel safe travelling through these woods with that heathen so nearby? I insist on an escort back to Gloucester territory.”

_ Of course you do _ . “Well, he already robbed you of your gold. I don’t think you’re his target anymore. Chances are he’s already long gone.”

“Are you denying my request?” the merchant blusters.

“I’m not denying it. You’d have to ask the Triumvirate that. I don’t have the authority to send officers into other territories. They have to approve it.” It’s not a total lie. Catherine is wholly capable of sending out officers to other territories on her own, but the Triumvirate does need to approve of whatever action they take outside the territory on behalf of Zanado.

The merchant goes red in the face. “Then what good are you?”

Catherine stares him down. Her back straightens and her shoulders stiffen. “I’d suggest not continuing that line of questioning. If you truly desire compensation or an escort back to Gloucester, the Triumvirate will gladly field these requests. If not, I’d greatly appreaciate it if you’d be so kind as to get the fuck off my land.”

The guards standing just behind the merchant exchange an uncertain glance. The smaller one reaches for his sword with a shaky hand. The other stands stock still, sweat beading up on her forehead.

“The Triumvirate will hear about this,” the merchant harrumphs. Despite his bluster, he takes a step back, clearly wanting to be closer to his hired muscle. As if they, too, aren’t abjectly terrified of Catherine.

“I’m sure they will,” Catherine answers dryly. She nods at the two guards behind the merchant, no longer willing to address him directly. “Have a good day.”

She stalks back across the road to where her horse is waiting. In a single motion, she seats herself in the saddle and takes the reins from Gilbert. She ignores the look of trepidation he offers her and spurs her horse onward. She doesn’t offer the merchant or his guards another glance as she brings her horse to a canter. If she could, she would have her horse, Isolde, sprinting the whole back. But she needs to at least pretend to have decorum now that she’s the Sheriff.

_ Damn this job _ , she thinks to herself.

* * *

The ride back to Zanado is spent almost entirely in silence. Catherine isn’t much of one to normally sit in silence, but that merchant really got under her skin. Not to mention this Robin Hood figure.

The rumors surrounding him were vague at best and completely farcical at worst. It was unclear how many allies he had, but it was probably more than five. No one knew what he looked like, only that he was possibly shorter than average and wore a hood so large it covered his face. As far as anyone was aware, he never attacked commoners and poor people. He didn’t even attack every rich person he came in contact with. He seemed to only go after people that weren’t particularly well liked. Or people that were outright criminals.

Oftentimes after Robin Hood and his bandits robbed someone, it came to light that their victim had earned their fortune through shady means. Blackmail, money laundering, murder, thievery, drug dealing, human trafficking. You name it, these people did it. But even that wasn’t always the case. Or at least, it wasn’t always proven.

Robin Hood was a name said in hushed, fearful tones by nobles, but it was also a name praised and lauded by the commonfolk. For Catherine, he wasn’t much more than a thief. A thief with a moral code, perhaps, but that didn’t absolve him of his crimes.

Of course, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t derive some level of enjoyment from the knowledge that it’s mostly pigs like that merchant that end up on the bad end of Robin Hood’s arrows.

The attack on this merchant is the first time Robin Hood has attacked anyone even remotely near Zanado. Catherine knows he travels a lot. He keeps on the move so as to not draw too much attention. And, not too different from Catherine’s own position, any one person chasing him down can’t do it for too long once he leaves their territory. He’s smart, she’ll give him that. But he just proved himself stupid enough to come to Zanado. To Catherine.

If anyone can catch this Robin Hood character, it’s her.

* * *

In the days following the robbery of that unsavory merchant, Catherine spends an awful lot of time looking at the note left by the thief known as Robin Hood.

It’s not so much a note as it is a list. Almost like a shopping list, so simple in it’s writing and presentation. The only noteworthy thing about it is the drawing of the spider.

Each stroke and mark had been made with the clear and undeniable confidence of someone who knew their subject matter well. Only true masters can draw like this. So effortlessly. As far as Catherine can tell, there was no underlying sketch to guide the confident inks of the spider’s limbs. It’s as if the artist simply picked up a pen and the spider crawled out of it onto the page. Catherine can’t deny how impressed she is with Robin Hood’s skill.

The Triumvirate are a little less impressed, however. All three of them barely even glance at the paper before giving Catherine her instructions.

“Find the thief if you can. If not, send letters to the neighboring territories warning them of Robin Hood’s proximity. Oh, and do make sure to send a letter to Count Gloucester with that list of crimes. Perhaps that merchant is actually guilty. Can’t let him slip through,” Lord Seteth had informed her.

Thankfully, she’d already sent the Count a letter. She received a response a few days later informing her that the Count would look into the accusations.

Less than a week later, she learns through a travelling sellsword that the merchant was arrested while trying to flee to Charon territory. Not a word from the Count or anyone else within Gloucester territory had come her way since then. Can’t let anyone know they made that arrest thanks to a tip from a known and wanted criminal, she supposes.

Over the following weeks, three more merchants and two nobles are robbed. None of them manage to tell the same story. In some tales, it’s just Robin Hood who manages to dispatch an entire squad of trained knights before stealing whatever gold could be found on the target. In others, Robin Hood has a whole army at his back that he sends out to do his dirty work only to stroll in at the end and pluck the gold from the noble’s hands. Two of the robberies were within Zanado itself while the other three were in the surrounding area. Unfortunately, there were no more notes.

Catherine assigns a few of her officers to surveil each of the victims, but from a distance. She needs to find out if they’re also dirty.

But, of course, the bigger issue is the attacks themselves. Each robbery is quick and calculated. Carefully planned and executed. Almost as if these thieves were military (Catherine’s not willing to rule that out, even if the Triumvirate is).

At a glance, these attacks seem random. Like Robin Hood is simply going after wealthy merchants and nobles in the area. Like his only goal is to get money as quickly as possible. But upon further inspection, it’s clear there’s a pattern. Despite staying near the outside of the city, Robin Hood and his bandits are travelling farther south along the city. Getting closer and closer to the palace along the southern wall.

It’s not until the fifth robbery (sixth counting that first Gloucester merchant) that Catherine figures it out. She bursts into the Triumvirate’s council chambers knocking about the scribe that stood a little too near the massive doors.

“We’re the target!” She announces to the leaders gathered before her.

All three immediately freeze. Seteth, to the left, had lifted a cup of tea to his lips and now sits frozen with his lips outstretched to the ceramic. Rhea, to the right, holds a piece of parchment - some report perhaps - out in front of her; her mouth hangs open as if she were in the middle of reading it aloud. Between them both sits Byleth, replete in her usual armor, her hand outstretched for the same parchment Rhea was reading.

The three of them seem to come back to earth at the same time. Seteth lowers his cup to the table beside him. Byleth’s back straightens and she lowers her gaze at Catherine with an arched brow. Rhea drops the parchment to her lap and speaks first.

“What are you talking about?” She asks.

Catherine turns her attention to Rhea fully. “Robin Hood. He’s targeted us.”

“How do you know that?” Rhea asks flatly.

“There’s a pattern to these attacks. They’re working their way closer and closer to the palace.” Catherine takes a step closer to the three green-haired leaders. “Robin Hood rarely stays in one place this long unless he has an important mark he’s trying to hit. He’s targeting us. He wants something we have.”

“Something? Not simply our gold?” Seteth asks.

“I don’t think so. If he just wanted gold he’d have left by now. He’s stolen more than enough from those few merchants and nobles he’s already hit,” Catherine explains.

Seteth and Rhea exchange a glance across Byleth. The youngest member of the Triumvirate ignores the exchange entirely. She simply leans back in her chair and holds her chin in one hand contemplatively.

“You don’t think they’re after…?” Seteth lets his question trail off, not trusting either Catherine of the scribe.

Rhea glances warily at the scribe. Catherine follows her gaze to see that the scribe has yet to start documenting their conversation again. He clearly knew the discretion this conversation deserved.

“Perhaps,” Rhea admits. “But hardly anyone outside this room knows about it.”

“Hardly anyone can use it,” Seteth adds. “It’s worthless to anyone else.”

“Catherine.” Byleth’s quiet voice manages to silence both her contemporaries. They glance at her expectantly. “You’re certain we’re their target?”

“I can’t come up with any other explanation for them sticking around so long,” Catherine admits.

Byleth nods. She looks to both Rhea and Seteth for a moment. She arches a brow at them both, a wry smile playing on her lips. “What say we lay a trap, then?”

* * *

With Catherine’s assistance, the Triumvirate are able to come up with a plan in order to lure Robin Hood and his band right into a trap. It doesn’t matter what Robin Hood was after, in truth. They know Robin Hood’s coming. And, if Catherin’s hunch is correct, Robin Hood knows they know as much. She suggests making a show of moving their collected goods and amassed wealth to a repository within the palace. They could post guards. Make a whole show of it. Make it seem like that’s where the valuables are. And when Robin Hood and his men come through, they’ll be able to catch them all in one fell swoop.

Seteth worries over when Robin Hood will strike. It’s Byleth who points out that it doesn’t matter. The moment they move the lure, Robin Hood will be forced to act lest they move it again.

Catherine assigned a detachment of lower level officers to guard over the temporary repository from the outside. From within, she and Gilbert waited for Robin Hood’s inevitable arrival and overpowering of the officers outside.

The Triumvirate also assigned several knights and guards to assist in the ruse. Byleth tried arguing that she should be there to help, but Rhea and Seteth told her it was too risky. She needn’t be there for this to work. She ought to leave it to Catherine and her officers to apprehend the thief. So, the Triumvirate left the repository to the officers and the guards. Though knowing the youngest Triumvir, she wasn’t far waiting to leap into action.

“Remember, Catherine, we want him alive,” Rhea instructs, just outside the repository. “If it comes down to either killing him or letting him go, let him go.”

Catherine blinks at the other woman, more than a little confused. “My lady, I don’t understand. You’re telling me to let a known and wanted thief go?”

Rhea nods solemnly. “I am. If the people find out we killed him, there will be riots. He’s become a symbol of hope for them. We can’t take that away from them.”

“Won’t arresting him do that? He won’t be out there anymore. Inspiring hope.”

“I don’t intend to keep him incarcerated. If your belief that he’s only targeting corrupt individuals is true, I want to keep him close.”

Catherine shifts her weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. “But he’s targeting us, my lady. I must’ve been wrong about that.”

“Why do you think I want to keep him close?” Rhea’s face doesn’t betray her at all, but it is now abundantly clear that there is far more going on here than Catherine was aware of.

* * *

The repository is convincing enough, Catherine has to admit. With the moonlight filtering in from the overhead windows, it’s all awash in an eerie silvery glow. There are a few dozen chests in here filled with rocks. They had to fill it with something in case Robin Hood and his men tried to make off with one, then they wouldn’t realize it was fake. In addition to the chests, there are various fancy looking weapons strewn about. The weapons are made of iron, but have been painted over to look gold, silver, or platinum. There was one that even looked like a replica of the sword at Catherine’s hip.

Leaning against the wall near the entrance, Catherine hates to admit that even she would believe that this looked legit. Then again, she wasn’t some expert thief. Perhaps the infamous Robin Hood would take one look inside the repository and realize it’s all a ruse, and then turn tail and flee.

“Do you think he’ll come?” She whispers into the dark.

She doesn’t turn to see Gilbert, but she knows he’s there, hidden on the other side of the door. She hears him take in a deep steadying breath. “I’m honestly not sure,” he says quietly. “But if he does, we’ll catch him.”

Catherine nods. “Right. Of course.”

Her hands clench and unclench at her sides reflexively. She’s getting jittery and she knows it. It always happens before a fight. The building excitement deep in her chest. She used to think it was nerves. Now she knows better. It’s pure adrenaline. A anxious excitement that flows through her veins white hot and makes her body come alive. It’s easily her favorite part of her job. The rush she gets just before a good fight she knows is about to come.

_ Steady yourself _ , she orders. She needs to stay calm. There’s no guarantee he’ll even come tonight. And if he does, she can’t overdo. She has to make sure he survives.

It’s as she’s attempting to calm herself down that she hears the muffled  _ thud _ through the doors. Her head snaps up and around. Her eyes meet Gilbert’s, their faces mirroring each other’s anticipation. They offer each other a silent nod before leaning off the wall and readying their weapons. Her sword thrums in her hand, reacting to her adrenaline. She steadies herself with a deep breath and the sword goes silent once more.

Gilbert has his eyes trained on the door, just barely seeing over the top of his massive shield. The large axe he wields in his other hand, twitches ever so slightly with his anticipation.

Catherine, instead of looking at the door, has her head turned so that her right ear is toward it. She knew staring at a door waiting for it to fly open would only raise her anxiety. So instead she listened.

After that first  _ thud _ there are two more in quick succession. A span of silence follows, and then the unmistakable sound of an arrow impacting wood. The resounding  _ thunk _ is so deep, it’s clear whatever archer had loosed the arrow was immensely strong. Another  _ thud _ . Then footsteps.

Catherine can see Gilbert’s shoulders rolling forward. His head tilts left and then right as he stares at the space under the door expectantly.

Catherine’s tempted to turn and look at the door, just like Gilbert, as it’s clear now that whoever’s on the other side is about to open the door. But something else catches her eye. A shadow passes overhead. Normally she’d write it off as an owl or a bat, but for whatever reason she decides to look up. As she does, a dark figure leaps down from the overhead windows - windows she hadn’t heard breaking - and aims directly at the larger of the two of them.

“Gilbert!” She shouts.

The older man rounds on her quickly, ready to berate her for giving away their position. But his gaze turns skyward at the figure leaping at him. He barely gets his shield around in time to stop the attack on his person.

Three arrows glance off his shield before the figure lands down squarely on it. The figure is already leaping backwards and loosing more arrows before either Gilbert or Catherine gets the chance to act. At the same moment, the doorway behind them is flung open with considerable strength. Catherine has to leap out of the way to evade the heavy door.

Three more figures barrel in from outside the repository. The first being an overly large man - even larger than Gilbert - with massive, pointed gauntlets attached to his fists. The second is a much smaller figure wielding a lance almost as tall as the giant beside them. The third and final figure is another archer. The large man unleashes the first attack, aiming a garrish fist at Gilbert’s back. The older officer is able to get his shield around in time to block the first attack. Catherine moves to help defend him, but the second archer and the lancer come at her next. She deflects their attacks easily enough without having to call on her sword’s additional power.

The clang of metal on metal erupts around them, occasionally interspersed with grunts of exertion and the  _ thwang _ of a bowstring. All six members of the fight dance around and between each other with an expertise that Catherine would normally marvel at. She’d have time for that later. For now, she just has to figure out which of these hooded figures is  _ the _ hood.

After dodging a particularly devastating strike from the behemoth, she sees one of the archers duck out of the repository and take off running. She takes one glance at Gilbert. Their eyes meet and he nods. Then she runs after the archer.

The hooded figure is fast. Almost unfairly so. If Catherine had wasted any extra time in the repository making sure Gilbert was okay, she surely would’ve lost them. They’re smart, too. They topple over cabinets, tables, chairs, anything to stall Catherine’s movements. They dip into and out of rooms quickly, all failed attempts to shake Catherine. But they’re not going to get away. Not a chance. They didn’t know it yet, but they’re actually running straight for a dead end.

The figure glances over their shoulder once more to see Catherine still there. Catherine only smirks in response.

The figure then peels off to the left around a sharp corner. Catherine knows exactly where they’re going and doesn’t attempt to pick up her pace. She does, however, place her hand on her sword hilt.

Just as she rounds the corner, she hears the  _ thwang _ or a bowstring, the only warning she has before she sees the arrow in front of her face. She barely gets her sword up in time to deflect the arrow.

She stares down the hall at the archer about thirty paces away. This hall is better lit than the repository. There are more windows overhead letting in the silvery moonlight. The angle with which the light falls on the archer, Catherine can just barely see under the hood. And… is that a smile? Is that blasted archer  _ smiling _ at her?

Catherine grips her sword tightly and rushes the archer. The archer responds with more arrows. Each one Catherine is able to dodge or deflect. The archer starts backing up a few paces, their stupid smile gone now, to put space between them again. But Catherine’s faster than their feeble backpedaling. She’s still a few paces away, but close enough to hit them. And so she swings.

The figure ducks out of the way, rolling off to the side. They loose another two arrows at Catherine. The first goes wide, the second  _ clang _ s off her sword. Catherine follows up with another downward strike. The figure moves in closer to Catherine, dropping their bow, and gets under her arms. They pull out a dagger that Catherine had no idea they had on their person. The figure slashes upwards, dangerously close to her throat. She leaps backwards, abandoning her sword in the act. It doesn’t matter. She won’t need it up close.

The figure rushes her again. The dagger seemingly disappeared for now. Catherine catches the figure’s first strike and returns with one to their abdomen. The grunt of discomfort that escapes their lips is distinctly feminine, if a bit low.

The other woman slashes upward at Catherine’s face, the knife having reappeared in her other hand. Catherine has to leap backward again, but not nearly as far as before. When the woman slashes down at her, Catherine catches her arm. Catherine drops her center of gravity below the woman’s and wraps her arm around her middle. With a guttural yell, she picks up and then drops the woman to the ground.

The knife falls from the woman’s hand and skitters along the tile floor. The woman’s back arches as she tries to catch her breath again. The hood slips farther off her face revealing dark purple eyes.

Catherine, from atop the woman, reaches upward and yanks the hood the rest of the way off of her face. When their eyes connect in the silvery light, both of them gasp.

Catherine leaps backward. The excitement she felt before is gone, replaced by a cold fear that washes over her. The other woman looks similarly disturbed as she crawls backwards away from Catherine, not once looking away.

“Shamir?” Catherine asks.

It had been some time since they’d last seen each other, but Catherine would recognize her anywhere. Her dark hair was shorter than it used to be, yeah. She was dressed vastly different, too. Instead of the simple clothes she wore when they were young, she now sports dark leather armor. She has a thick hood that clasped at her neck with an arachnid-like brooch made from what looked to be obsidian. The spider is identical to the one drawn on the note Catherine had found at the merchant’s carriage. But despite those changes, she looks almost exactly the same. Just… taller.

“Cassandra?” the other woman responds, the only confirmation that this is truly Shamir and not some convincing look alike.

Catherine feels her throat close. It had been far too long since anyone had called her that. Of course, that’s the only name Shamir ever knew her by, so it’s unreasonable to expect her to call her anything else. But even hearing her given name spoken aloud sends a spike of fear up her spine.

“It’s Catherine now,” she corrects. Her voice feels small.

Shamir’s eyes narrow. They zero in on the badge on her left breastplate. “You’re a sheriff now,” she says flatly.

Catherine’s back straightens. It feels like she should be insulted by that. And maybe a small part of her is. She’s not sure. “And you’re a bandit.”

Shamir scoffs. “I suppose you’re going to arrest me now?”

Catherine’s mouth goes dry. “That  _ is _ kind of my job.”

Shamir lifts her chin to Catherine. “Did you at least arrest that merchant?”

“Which one?”

“You know which one.”

Catherin’s jaw sets. “Count Gloucester made the arrest.”

Shamir nods. “Good.”

“I don’t understand, Shamir. What happened to you? Are you… Robin Hood?” Saying the name aloud now felt incredibly silly. Like a farce. It’s only now that Catherine realizes it never occurred to her that  _ Robin Hood _ was just a pseudonym.

“Is that what they’re calling me?” Shamir shakes her head at the ground. “I was kind of hoping they’d pick something that had to do with the spiders.”

Catherine takes a step forward. “Damn it, Shamir! Why would you attack the Triumvirate?” Despite her growing anger, she keeps her voice low. Like she’s afraid to share this moment with anyone else nearby that might overhear it.

Shamir’s dark eyes snap to Catherine. “Why do you think? For gold.”

“Don’t lie to me, Shamir. You don’t go after anyone this powerful unless you have a good reason to. Is there someone here I shouldn’t be trusting?”

Shamir smirks. “Done your research on me, have you?”

Catherine’s cheeks burn at the insinuation. “It’s my  _ job _ .”

“Right.” Shamir rolls her eyes. She pauses a moment to let her eyes rake over Catherine. There’s little emotion in the gesture. Like she’s simply sizing her up. But Catherine can’t shake the feeling that Shamir is actually taking stock of how much she’s changed. How much they both have. “Why are you asking me this? Do  _ you _ not trust the Triumvirate? Do they even know who you are? Who you  _ really _ are?”

Catherine breathes through flared nostrils, but she doesn’t answer.

“Thought so,” says Shamir. “Maybe instead of focusing on me, you should look at the people running your city.”

Catherine’s back straightens. She takes a labored step forward. She attempts her best authoritative stance and schools her face into one of indifference. “Shamir Nevrand… Robin Hood. In the name of the Zanado Triumvirate, you’re under arrest.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Shamir responds.

Just then, as if on cue, the moonlight is blotted out. The hallway they stand in falls into unparalleled darkness. The glass overhead shatters, raining shards down around them both.

Catherine swears under her breath and lunges for where she remembers her sword being. She fumbles in the dark for less than a second before finding the familiar weapon. She hefts it up one handed and focuses her energy on it. The weapon immediately glows blood red, bathing the hall in its light.

When she turns around, she is inches from another hooded figure, this one wielding an axe. Catherine gets her sword up, but only just. Their weapons clash and violent sparks leap off the connected blades. The force pushes Catherine back a few steps.

She lets the momentum of her sword swinging backwards continue onward until it pulls her forward again. She lunges for the second figure aiming to disarm them here and now. But before she gets close enough to strike, she hears the  _ thwang _ of a bow. Unfortunately, she can’t find Shamir or the arrow that flies at her shoulder. The arrow buries itself deep in her muscle, thankfully in her non-dominant shoulder.

She drops her left hand from the sword, but doesn’t stop. She swings at the secondary figure. Their axe meets her sword, but instead of sparks her weapon cuts straight through theirs. She hears the figure gasp. She smirks in response.

One-handed, Catherine spins Thunderbrand around in her hand. She hears another  _ thwang _ , but this time is able to block the incoming arrow. With that strike, Catherine is able to pinpoint Shamir in the near darkness. All she has to do is dispatch this axe wielder and then she can get to Shamir and finish the job.

But before she gets the chance, something large and loud bursts through the overhead windows. More glass falls around her and she needs to shield her face from the onslaught. When she lowers her arm, she comes face to face with two large, glowing yellow eyes illuminated by the moonlight overhead. She barely has a chance to register what just fell in front of her before the wyvern is roaring in her face. She hefts Thunderbrand up one-handed to strike. But she was too preoccupied with the wyvern’s maw to pay any attention to its tail.

The large mass of muscle connects with her chest launching her into the air. She loses Thunderbrand, and the glowing sword disappears in the half darkness. She smashes against the nearest wall so hard she sees stars. Catherine falls bodily to the ground. Her breath comes in short and wheezy.

She tries to stand, but only manages to roll herself onto her side. Her vision blurs. Her head swims. She blinks against the fatigue taking her over and manages to clear her vision long enough to see Shamir and the axe wielder climb onto the back of the wyvern.

“Catherine!” a voice is shouting from elsewhere, but she doesn’t recognize it.

Her eyes connect with Shamir’s, through the darkness and under that hood. Those dark purple eyes retreating into the night sky are the last thing Catherine sees before it all goes dark.


	2. Time To Be Leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you questioning my judgement?”
> 
> “I am,” Cyril says firmly. The youth seems to shrink in stature, but he doesn’t back down. “I think you’re letting your emotions get the better of you.”
> 
> “What emotions?” Shamir scoffs.
> 
> “I don’t know. But when you saw that sheriff’s face, you got scared. Do you know her or something?”
> 
> Shamir’s lips purse into a thin line. “I did. Once,” she admits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi over on twitter/instagram (@bridgetserdock) or tumblr (@bridgetserdocksketches)

It’s still dark when she wakes. Or maybe it’s dark again? Catherine can’t tell how long it had been, in truth. But she’s awake. And boy, is she in pain.

She tries sitting up, but makes the mistake of pushing up with her left arm. Her shoulder burns in protest. She hastens to correct the motion by propping herself up on her right hand instead. The motion sends cascading agony down her back starting at the base of her skull. And in that moment, she can’t stifle the cry of pain fighting its way out of her throat.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” a soothing voice calls.

Catherine can’t seem to figure out who the voice belongs to. All she sees is a flash of green hair, so she assumes it’s one of the Triumvirate. Or perhaps even Flayn. There’s a hand at Catherine’s shoulder. Her left shoulder. With a painful hiss, she jerks away and curses under her breath.

“Oh, fuck, sorry, I forgot.” It must be Byleth, then. She’s the only one who’d be willing to swear so freely like that. She places a firm hand to Catherine’s back and eases her back down into the bed she awoke on. “Let’s lie you back down, yeah?”

“Lady Byleth?” Catherine asks.

She blinks up at the face now looming over her. In the faint moonlight, it’s clear that it is in fact Byleth. The youngest Triumvir, for whatever reason, is the one watching over her this evening. Or perhaps she was on her way out. Maybe she’d even just come by to check on Catherine quickly and then leave.

Whatever the reason, she claims a seat beside Catherine’s bed, giving Catherine a much better look at her. She, herself, looks to be a bit roughed up. There’s a bandage wrapped around her right forearm and a visible laceration on her forehead that already looks mostly healed. Her green hair had been pulled back out of her face into a loose ponytail that sits high on the back of her head. Her seafoam eyes focus on Catherine intensely. It’s uncomfortable being watched by those eyes. Always has been.

“That’s me,” Byleth answers.

The younger woman turns away from Catherine for a moment. From this angle, Catherine can’t see what she’s doing, but soon there’s a warm light bathing both of them. She can barely smell the scent of a candle burning.

“What happened?” Catherine asks.

Byleth turns back to Catherine from the few candles she just lit. Her brow knits. “You got hurt, pretty bad. Flayn and Rhea have been coming in here intermittently to heal you, but you’re not one hundred percent just yet.”

Catherine shakes her head, the motion alone makes her stomach lurch. “What happened with the bandits? Did we catch them?”

Byleth’s mouth hangs open a little, clearly not ready for that question. Her gaze falls to the ground. She closes her mouth and breathes in deeply. “They got away, Catherine. We… we weren’t expecting them to have any wyverns with them.” She shakes her head at her lap.

“Did they take anything?” Catherine asks.

Byleth scoffs irritably. “No. That bastard Robin Hood… it’s like he just came here to test our defenses.”

“She,” Catherine corrects swiftly.

The Triumvir’s eyes go wide. Her head snaps up and she stares at Catherine. “Did you… did you see her? You saw Robin Hood? Without her hood, I mean.”

“Briefly,” Catherine lies. She’s not even sure why she lies. But there’s this uncomfortable knot forming in her stomach at the memory. Of Shamir. Of their reunion. Of what Shamir knew about her. Of what she knew about Shamir. She doesn’t want that to get out. Surely Shamir doesn’t either. “But I heard her speak and I felt… Let’s just say that there are some things a hood can’t hide.”

Byleth snickers at the implication. She’s probably the only one in Zanado who would appreciate that. Definitely the only Triumvir. “Well that does change things. We’ll have to modify our search then. Thank you, Catherine.” Byleth pats her arm lightly, careful of her injured shoulder. “You should get some sleep. It’s been a long night.”

So it’s still the same night. That’s comforting to know at least.

Catherine watches as the youngest Triumvir gets up from her seat. She moves a bit stiffly, likely more injured than she’s letting on. She gets to the candles she had just lit and starts to put them out again.

“Lady Byleth?” Catherine says abruptly.

Byleth turns to her. She tilts her head to the side. “Hmm?”

“What of Gilbert?”

Byleth’s blank face transitions easily into a soft smile. She turns to face Catherine again. “He’s fine. But he got overwhelmed by the bandits in the repository after you went after Robin Hood. Thankfully he had that giant shield, or else he’d be in the bed next to you.”

Catherine swallows thickly. She nods, thankful that he’s alright. But her curiosity isn’t gone just yet. “And you?”

Byleth lifts her right arm. She turns it over in the faint light, examining the red-tinged bandage there. “I got involved when I probably shouldn’t have.” Her gaze lifts to Catherine’s, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Don’t tell Rhea and Seteth I said that.” She lets her hand drop to her side and shrugs. “But I’m fine. Honest. I’m not the one who got thrown head first into a stone wall.”

Catherine groans at the reminder. “Okay, fair.”

The Triumvir offers another smile and repeats, “get some sleep” before dousing the last candle. It’s not long after she leaves that Catherine does just that.

* * *

The woods are dead silent. It’s not normally the sort of ambiance Shamir’s used to when walking between the trees, but two massive wyverns will have that effect on nature. The only noise as she wraps some rough fabric around the splint she’d fashioned for her left leg is the wind through the trees and the soft murmurings of her companions.

It’s as she’s tying off the fabric that she hears the rushed, heavy footfalls of one of her companions approaching. By the cadence of their step, she can tell it’s Cyril without turning around.

“What the hell, Shamir?” He snaps.

She turns over her shoulder at him. “What?”

“That sheriff saw you. Your face! You should’ve let me kill her!”

Their fellows’ murmuring silences immediately. Shamir can feel their gaze turning to her and Cyril, even at this distance. Even the wyverns seem to have halted their near silent slumber to watch and listen.

“I told you, she’s not a threat,” Shamir says flatly.

“She had a  _ relic _ , Shamir. She’s probably a noble. Of course she’s a threat!”

Shamir stands from the stump she had claimed as her seat and whirls around on Cyril. The motion sends pain lancing up her leg, but she ignores it. She can no longer look down on the young Almyran as he’d grown so much since their first meeting, but she can still send a glare his way that cuts straight through to the bone. “Are you questioning my judgement?”

“I am,” he says firmly. The youth seems to shrink in stature, but he doesn’t back down. “I think you’re letting your emotions get the better of you.”

“What emotions?” Shamir scoffs.

“I don’t know. But when you saw that sheriff’s face, you got scared. Do you know her or something?”

Shamir’s lips purse into a thin line. “I did. Once,” she admits.

She turns away from Cyril again. She gathers her gear up, returning her lost arrows to her quiver. Her bow was gone, she’d have to make or find a new one, but at least she managed to retrieve the dagger before their escape only hours ago. She runs her fingers over its hilt affectionately before returning it to its sheath at her hip.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cyril snaps.

“It means that I don’t know who she is. Not anymore.” Her back stiffens and she levels a gaze on the young thief. “But we did know each other.”

The Almyran’s eyes go wide. He steps toward Shamir and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “You know something about her that she doesn’t want getting out. Don’t you?”

Shamir nods. “Just as she knows something about me that I don’t want getting out.”

Cyril’s shoulders rise and fall as he breathes deeply. “We shouldn’t stay here, then.”

“We’re not finished here, Cyril.”

“Pretty sure we are. If that sheriff finds us again… Shamir, you froze last night. That’s not something we can afford to let happen again. I know that this is important but--”

“It won’t happen again,” she says forcefully. “This is too important to just let go. We’re finishing this.”

“Why?” Cyril asks.

Shamir takes a deep breath. She glances past Cyril, over his shoulder at the rest of their fellows. The other bandits are at least pretending not to be listening. Her eyes return to Cyril. “Because if we do this right, none of us will ever have to steal again.”

Cyril’s gaze narrows. “We started stealing to help people. Not because we need to.”

“Right. But after this, we’ll be able to help people  _ without _ stealing.”

Shamir places her hand on his shoulder. She squeezes the hard muscle reassuringly, offering a soft smile. He returns it half-heartedly, his mind clearly focused on something else entirely.

Shamir steps past him and walks toward where the rest of their band is waiting between the trees.

“Alright, let’s pack it up,” she barks at them. “We need to put some distance between us and them before they figure out what we took.”

* * *

Flayn’s the first to see Catherine the following day. Or, rather, she’s the first that Catherine sees. Apparently Rhea, Seteth, and Gilbert had all stopped by separately to check in on her while she was still sleeping. Flayn was working with a number of healers to get Catherine back to full working order sooner rather than later. Whenever Rhea had the chance between her duties as a Triumvir, she would come and assist. But when she wakes the following day, somewhere after noon, Flayn is alone save for a nurse busying herself with cleaning up at the back of the room.

“Hey, Flayn,” Catherine says. Her voice comes out a bit hoarse, but she manages a smile all the same.

“Oh, good afternoon!” Flayn says, a little startled. She approaches the side of her bed and takes the seat Byleth had filled the night prior. “How are you feeling?”

“Like the Goddess herself threw me against that wall,” Catherine jokes.

Flayn giggles. “Wyverns are deadly strong, aren’t they?”

“Indeed.” Catherine lets her eyes wander around the infirmary. “Where’s Lady Rhea? Lady Byleth said she was helping you heal me.”

“She was here just a little while ago. But she’s so busy with the Triumvirate, she had to step away. You know how politics are,” Flayn says with a wave of her hand.

“Hmm,” Catherine returns.

Flayn’s excitable green eyes dart about the room, landing on the distracted nurse for a few seconds. She inches her chair closer to Catherine’s bed and leans toward her. Catherine indulges the young woman and leans into her as well.

“I heard you saw Robin Hood,” she whispers.

Catherine smiles confidently. “Now where did you hear such a scandalous rumor?”

“Byleth told me. Father didn’t want her to, but she did it anyway. In private, of course.”

Somehow Catherine’s not surprised by that. Despite being a Triumvir, one of the three most powerful people on the continent, Byleth still manages to maintain this endearing level of childish disobedience that makes it hard to believe how powerful she really is. “Yeah, that sounds like her,” Catherine breathes.

Flayn inches ever closer, her bright eyes shining with curiosity. “So did you?”

Catherine fights the smile playing on her lips. “I did,” she says with a playful arch of her brows.

“Was he scary? Is he as dangerous as they say?”

Catherine laughs lightly. So Byleth did leave out some of what Catherine had told her. “No,  _ she _ wasn’t scary. Not to me, at least. Just another crook.” Something violent and unfair twists up inside her as she says that. Though, she’s not sure which part of that caused the reaction.

Flayn gasps so dramatically she leans all the way back in her chair. “She?”

“Yep. She,” Catherine nods.

Flayn looks off to the side, her brow furrowed. “I can’t believe Byleth didn’t tell me that...”

“Say, Flayn,” Catherine says, capitalizing on her distraction. “How much longer do I have to stay in this bed before I can get back out there?”

“You should be fully healed by supper time,” Flayn says. She lifts a hand in front of Catherine to stall her excited fist bumps. “ _ If _ you stay in bed and do as you’re told. You’re lucky you were in the palace when you hit that wall. The damage may have been permanent if we hadn’t gotten to you so quickly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Catherine teases.

The young, green-haired woman shakes her head at her with a smile. She hops off the chair and wanders over to the nurse at the back of the room. Both return to whatever it was they were doing when Catherine so rudely woke up and interrupted them.

Catherine’s gaze falls to the window to her right. She has a clear view of the forests surrounding Zanado from here. As she stares at the thickly wooded forests, she can’t help but wonder how easy it might be to hide a few wyverns down and in there. And how easy it would be to travel by wyvern under the cover of night. Her mind slides back to her school years and how she barely paid any mind to learning about the strange creatures.

“ _ It’s not like I’ll have to deal with them. This is Faerghus, not the Alliance _ ,” she had complained as a child.

“ _ It’s not just the Almyrans that use wyverns, Catherine _ ,” her tutor had scolded.

Of course that didn’t get her to pay any more attention to them. She desperately wishes she had, now. Maybe then she’d know how far Shamir could’ve flown by now. If it wasn’t too far, she might be able to send out search parties. She still has the chance to salvage this. The arrest, that is. Obviously, she’s worried only about the arrest. Nothing else.

* * *

She gets a few more visitors throughout the day, all asking after the Robin Hood case. Seteth and Rhea manage to swing by together, clearly hoping to confirm the story they’d heard from Byleth. The only visitor she’s interested in seeing, however, is Gilbert. And he arrives just before she’s discharged, just in time to help her get home.

He’s the first one to tell her what happened the night prior after she went after Shamir… after Robin Hood.

After fighting the other three bandits alone for as long as he had, Gilbert had started to figure out a pattern to their attacks. The behemoth would attack Gilbert from one side, forcing him to hoist his shield in that direction. While he did that, the archer would shoot arrows at his back from atop the pile of chests. After a flurry of those arrows, the lancer would swing around his back to try and distract him. He deduced that they weren’t actually trying to kill him, only wear him out until they could escape. So he had to find a way to get a leg up on them.

Once he figured out their tactics, he was able to predict their movements. And he was able to guide the fight back towards the entrance to the repository. His goal was to shut the doors and lock them in there until he could alert the Triumvirate and make the arrest.

But just as he reached the entrance, the wyverns showed up. Or rather, they just made their presence known. Their riders were probably lying in wait that whole time. They just had to wait for the right moment, whatever that right moment was. But the rider Gilbert had to deal with wasn’t the only newcomer.

A small brawler came in out of nowhere with a loud battlecry that rivaled the deafening roar that Catherine, herself, was dealing with not too far away. If not for that battlecry, Gilbert likely would’ve taken a devastating blow to the head (or so he claims, Catherine’s certain he’d still have been able to dodge or block the attack without it).

Just as he spun around to block the attack, he came face to face with another axe wielder. This one wore bulky armor that slowed them down a great deal, as did the hefty wooden shield they clung to with their left arm. Despite this, they were significantly faster than Gilbert first assessed. The wielder’s first strike bit into Gilbert’s thick, steel shield deep enough to dent the bracer beneath it. Gilbert noted that this bandit fought like a true knight. Possibly a declasse noble. Or even a full-fledged knight who had abandoned their duties and oaths.

It was with this newest addition that Byleth ignored her soldiers and leapt into battle.

The five bandits in the repository encircled Gilbert and had him backed into a wall. The first to notice the Triumvir’s arrival among them was the lancer. But it was a little late. Byleth had already attacked the spitfire of a brawler so forcefully they flew into the pile of false coiffers.

The lancer attacked Byleth next, but couldn’t land a single blow. The archer turned their attention to the Triumvir as well. Both of their attacks were getting more frenzied, or so Gilbert claimed. Likely, they were spooked enough by Byleth’s arrival to change their attacks to a lethal variety. She had a reputation throughout all of Fodlan as a peerless fighter. And in those first few minutes of battle she proved it. That is until the wyvern rider decided to enter the throng.

They leapt down from above with a noticeably feminine shout. They wielded a sword, an unusual choice for a wyvern rider. They aimed a downward strike at Byleth. They missed, of course. Byleth was too fast and skilled. Unfortunately for the young politician, the other two fighting her hadn’t let up. The lancer followed her closely, forcing her to remain on the defensive. And the archer managed to get a single arrow past her defenses. She twisted away, but the steel arrowhead still managed to connect with her forehead.

The way Gilbert tells it, he was certain she had died right then and there. She had twisted with the arrow, and there was so much blood it looked like they were once again down a pillar of Fodlan. But it was little more than a flesh wound. And all it did was make her angry. And so she used her magic, unleashing a fiery blast around herself to create some distance between herself and the bandits. She launched a fireball at the archer, who dodged it by cowering behind the coiffers.

Meanwhile, Gilbert was dealing with the maybe-knight and the massive brawler. He was still backed into the corner and was growing tired. His opponents had landed a few more strikes, but thanks to his thick armor he wasn’t injured. The only visible indication that they’d landed any hits were the dents along the once shining armor.

Gilbert had given up on staying on the offensive. With Lady Byleth’s arrival, he had one job now: protect her at the cost of his own life. Which meant he had to somehow get over to her. But every attempt he made to move in one direction or another was headed off by the two bandits in front of him. If he went left, an axe threatened to cut off his leg. If he went right, the behemoth would pound his shield so hard he’d skid back across the stone floor.

He had wondered where the knights assigned to protecting the young Triumvir were and why they weren’t coming in to assist. It didn’t take long to realize it was the archer. After Byleth’s arrival, they turned their attention to the entrance and would shoot at anyone coming close.

The bandits’ tactics made absolutely no sense to Gilbert at all. What were they after? Why didn’t they just give up if they were cornered? Or just flee if they weren’t?

He didn’t get the chance to chase down that line of thinking, because it was then that the other brawler woke. With another guttural yell, the smallish fighter was on his feet and leaping for Gilbert. His sudden consciousness seemed to startle the whole room. Even the archer stalled. The aged knight sidestepped out of the way to avoid the attack.

The brawler launched himself so high and landed with so much force, Gilbert could feel the impact through the stone floor. He spun around as the brawler got to his feet again. He hefted his shield up and thrust it into the smaller man’s face.

“Gilbert!” Byleth had shouted in warning.

The knight turned around in time to see the behemoth and the maybe-knight both winding up to attack. Gilbert would only be able to block one of them. Maybe.

Before he could attempt to block them, a blazing fireball cut across his vision. The heat of it burnt his skin and singed the little facial hair that had started to form on his normally clean-shaven face. The magical attack was aimed at the knight turned bandit. They toppled right over and into the large brawler. As they hit the ground, Byleth let out a pained shout.

Gilbert’s head whipped around, certain he had failed in his duty. But Byleth still stood. Her right forearm was dripping scarlet liquid. Despite the injury, her fingers clutched her sword so tight her knuckles turned white. Her seafoam eyes were narrowed and focused on the sword wielding rider who’s weapon matched the scarlet of Byleth’s arm.

“Lady Byleth!” Gilbert shouted as a way of warning. She ought not get baited into a duel with so many enemies nearby. She was a good fighter, obviously, but she would lose if she let that happen.

Thankfully, her soldiers showed up at that moment, the archer too distracted by another fireball having been thrown so close to their person to stop them. The soldiers encircled the Triumvir and kept her back from the bandits; possibly the one and only mistake made that night. If Byleth could’ve continued fighting, they likely would’ve been able to apprehend at least one of the bandits. If Gilbert weren’t so tired, they likely would’ve accomplished at least that as well.

“Time to be leaving!” Gilbert heard one of the bandits say to the others. His fatigued mind couldn’t figure out which one. Not that it mattered.

The archer, the smallish brawler, and the lancer each pulled something out of hidden pockets on their persons. They threw the objects at their feet and smoke filled the repository.

Lady Byleth was ushered out of the repository by her soldiers. Gilbert lumbered out, coughing the whole while. He stood just outside the doorway coughing up lungfuls of smoke. Byleth, however, just stood there staring into the smoke with a burning anger in her gaze.

When the smoke fell away, the bandits were gone.

The soldiers were perplexed, but Gilbert and Byleth knew they had left through the smashed open windows overhead. It was just a wonder that they were all able to do it so easily. The windows were up so high, they couldn’t just make the jump. The coiffers weren’t piled high enough to accomplish it either. The windows were also too small for the wyvern to come down through. Gilbert reasoned they probably had some tool, like a grappling hook or rope ladder, to help them climb out. Byleth agreed that that was likely.

When there was another wyvern roar elsewhere in the palace, Gilbert remembered Catherine had gone off on her own after the other archer. With Byleth’s leave, he took off to find her. He got there just as Robin Hood and the other rider fled. He called for a mage. Oddly enough, the first one to arrive was Rhea. As if she’d been hiding out in the wings, waiting to swoop in and heal whoever had gotten hurt. Rhea and the soldiers worked together to bring Catherine, Lady Byleth, and Gilbert to the infirmary. Byleth refused aid and Gilbert proved to be healthy enough to not need any.

Their ruse was a failure. They all agreed on that much. It was also abundantly clear that they all underestimated Robin Hood.

Catherine knows she did. Shamir is one of the smartest, most calculating, and determined people she’s ever had the privilege of knowing. But now that she knows it’s Shamir, she won’t make that mistake again.

The one thing that surprises her the most about Gilbert’s story is just how many bandits there were. There’s the archer, the lancer, the knight, the two brawlers, the two riders, and of course Shamir. In total, that’s eight bandits. All come to the palace of the Triumvirate to… not actually steal anything?

After hearing Gilbert’s retelling of events, Catherine spends a mostly sleepless night trying to figure out what Shamir’s aim was. Was she really just testing their defenses? If so, that surely means she’ll be back. Or was she truly after whatever she thought was in that repository? Since they left with nothing, that likely means she’s already long gone. Maybe? It’s closer to morning than night when Catherine gives up trying to figure it out.

She does learn one thing, at least, from Gilbert’s tale worth noting. She may not remember much about wyverns, but she knows they can’t travel very far with a heavy load. And four people to a wyvern is certainly a heavy load. Unless they had other wyverns hidden elsewhere, Shamir and her fellow bandits couldn’t have made it far.

It’s that thought alone that helps her sleep soundly. If only for a few hours.

* * *

Work starts up as normal the next day. Catherine is more than a little grateful to be out of that bed. She’s still sore at losing those bandits (not just Shamir), but that’s nothing a little work and routine can’t cure.

Aside from the attack on the palace - which has been kept hidden from the public - work is business as usual. Mostly paperwork for her to deal with as the sheriff. Endless paperwork, really. It’s truly a shame how rarely she gets to use Thunderbrand these days. It’s one of the many reasons she regrets taking on the position of Sheriff. Thankfully, she only has another year in her tenure as sheriff before she can once again bury her head in the sand and do actual police work.

The first thing Catherine asks for once she’s back at work is any strange fauna sightings, specifically any mention of monsters, dragons, or wyverns. She figures it’s the fastest way to find out if Shamir and her bandits are still in the area. Of course, there are none outside of the night of the attack.

Catherine tasks a number of her officers to patrol the woods outside Zanado. It’s not something they normally do, but with the knowledge that Robin Hood is in the area and likely hiding out there, none of them question it thankfully. Unfortunately their patrols turn up nothing. Not even a single note or drawing of a spider anywhere.

There aren’t any reports of any thieving or robberies at all. It almost seems like Shamir just up and left.

Catherine was sure that Shamir wouldn’t do that. From all her research, it seemed like Robin Hood would stick around in areas until she got her hands on whatever it was she was targeting. But seeing as Shamir has yet to show her face, Catherine is beginning to wonder if she really did turn tail and flee.

If she did, what could be the reason? Is it Catherine? Did she scare Shamir the other night? Shamir certainly scared her. No. “Scared” is the wrong word. Maybe “surprise” is the better word. Catherine’s not scared of Shamir. But she is scared of what might happen to her if the truth of who she is comes out. And Shamir is the one of a select few people who knows that truth. She’s the only one who even knows Catherine’s still alive. But that should mean Catherine’s the one who’s scared and not Shamir. But she isn’t.

Days pass and still there’s no sign of Shamir or Robin Hood’s band. It seems for a fleeting and strangely upsetting moment, that she did in fact run away without a trace. That is until Catherine gets summoned to meet with Rhea. In her personal office. Without the other two Triumvir’s present.

In no position to deny the summons, Catherine makes her way over to the palace once again.

Standing outside of Rhea’s office, Catherine feels a growing and overwhelming sense of dread. Like Rhea somehow knows the truth of what happened during the attack. That Catherine let Shamir go, not because she didn’t have a choice but because she was afraid. That Catherine knew Shamir. That Catherine likely wasn’t fit to continue leading this search.

She shakes her head, dispelling the thought. Rhea doesn’t know. She can’t know. Catherine has been careful. No one knows who she really is. Or who Robin Hood is. Everything’s fine.

She steps forward and raps her knuckles against the wooden door. It’s barely a second after she knocks that Lady Rhea beckons her to enter.

“Come in,” she calls.

Catherine swallows thickly before pushing the door open.

Lady Rhea is sitting not at her desk like Catherine had expected, but at the small sitting area beside the large bay window. There’s a fresh teapot still spilling steam into the air on the table in front of her. There are three unused cups stacked atop each other alongside it, as well as an impressive spread of pastries and other desserts. Somehow that’s more unsettling than if Rhea were just at her desk.

“Good afternoon, Lady Rhea,” Caterine says with a broad smile.

“Catherine, good afternoon. You got here sooner than I thought you would,” the oldest Triumvir admits. She gestures to the vacant chair beside. “Please, have a seat.”

Catherine does as she’s told. She tries not to move too quickly and alert the older woman to her building nerves.

“Would you like some tea? I made a chamomile and rose petal blend,” Lady Rhea says.

Catherine’s eyes go wide. She feels her tongue salivating at the prospect. Now that she’s noticed it, she can smell the rose petals in the blend. “Oh, yes, please!” she says enthusiastically.

“Wonderful,” Rhea smiles.

She elegantly and effortlessly pours out a full cup for Catherine. She places the cup and one of the similarly stacked saucers down in front of the sheriff. Catherine wastes no time in adding a single sugar cube. She probably doesn’t stir it enough into the tea before taking a hearty swig.

“Oh, man, that’s good,” Catherine says, voiding any level of decorum she had intended to use during this meeting.

Rhea smiles softly at the compliment. “I’m glad you like it.” She takes a sip of her own tea before lowering it to the table in front of her. “I wanted to discuss the incident with Robin Hood the other night.

Catherine feels a spike of fear shoot through her. “Didn’t we already have a debrief? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten,” she teases.

Rhea laughs lightly. “It’s nothing like that, Catherine. We… we found something else out since then. Or rather… I have.” Rhea’s green eyes fall to the side. “I wanted to bring it to your attention first.”

“Oh,” Catherine says. The fear immediately dissipates. Rhea’s not looking to confront her. She’s trying to confide in her. Because she trusts her. How could Catherine think it might be anything different? “What is it?”

Rhea’s green eyes lift to Catherine’s blue ones again. “The thieves didn’t leave empty-handed.”

Catherine’s eyes see red. “What did they take?” She asks, managing to maintain a level head despite her anger.

“A key,” Rhea says flatly.

“A key?” Catherine leans toward Rhea. That doesn’t \make any sense. Why would they  _ just _ take a key? What good does a single key do Shamir? “To what?”

Rhea takes a deep breath, the only sort of indication that she wasn’t as calm as she pretends to be. “Everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	3. A Pair of Sirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Keep an eye on them,” Shamir instructs Ignatz. “And do try not to draw their attention.”
> 
> “I always try not to,” Ignatz says firmly.
> 
> “Then we should be fine,” Shamir says coolly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on twitter/instagram (@bridgetserdock) or tumblr (@bridgetserdocksketches)

Shamir never understood the appeal of skeleton keys. Sure, they make things moderately more convenient. You don’t have to fumble around with a massive keyring until you find the exact key just to get into the bathroom. But they’re more of a hindrance than anything. For one, they make you lazy. Complacent. Careless. If you have a single key that can open _everything_ , your life becomes ridiculously easy, and we all know what becomes of someone who has an easy life. But more than that, they make you an easy target. All a thief needs is that one key, and they can get into _anything_.

But, damn if they don’t make Shamir’s life easier.

Skeleton keys are hard to come by. The magic used to make a true skeleton key is not easy to accomplish. There are only a handful of people in the world who know how to make them. And there are only two in Fodlan (that she knows of). So only the truly rich and powerful have them. Of course, the truly rich and powerful don’t want anyone to know they had them (for that simple fact that it makes them an easy target).

So, naturally, the fact that Triumvirate used them is possibly the best kept secret in all of Fodlan. Shamir wasn’t sure she’d believed the rumor when she first heard it. It wasn’t until she held the key in her hand that she was willing to believe that the Triumvirate is dumber than they let on.

The question, now, is what does this little skeleton key truly open?

Yes, skeleton keys are rare. And yes, they open a lot of things. But they don’t open _everything_. They have to be paired with each lock that they open for the enchantment to truly work. So one skeleton key isn’t going to work on every lock you ever find throughout the world. But in a single house? It’ll open anything. A single palace? Everything. A single city…? Well, Shamir has never seen that before. But she’s not going to rule it out entirely.

They’re lucky that their hunch was correct. That the Triumvirate doesn’t use the skeleton often. That normally, it’s left alone, hidden away in some remote tower. A tower in the Triumvirate palace that the majority of the world thinks is damaged beyond repair and too dangerous to enter. That the tower would be easily accessible from the back of a wyvern or two. That only a simple distraction would be needed for the guards to abandon the tower entirely.

What they seem to have gotten wrong, however, is just how quickly the Triumvirate would come looking for them. Shamir guessed that they’d figure out the skeleton key was missing immediately and come looking for them. She expected wanted posters all over Zanado, wanted posters with her actual face on it no less.

But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Going to taverns and bars and markets didn’t even bring up rumors of either the attack on the Triumvirate’s palace or on the missing key. Either the Triumvirate don’t yet know, or they’re keeping it on the down low.

“Maybe they don’t know we took it yet,” Leonie offers after a fruitless trip to Zanado. “I mean, they’d have at least put up wanted posters if they knew… Right?”

“Hmm,” Shamir hums to herself. “Maybe… but the Triumvirate operates differently than anyone else. There’s a reason they’re the main power in Fodlan. They might be trying a different approach…”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure,” Shamir admits.

“Well, if they don’t know, what are we waiting for? Let’s go steal some stuff!” Caspar punctuates his statement with a loud ‘oo-rah’ shouted up into the trees. Several birds fly out of their hiding spots at his outburst.

“We can’t just run blindly into danger,” Ignatz mutters. Though only Shamir and Raphael hear him.

“Yeah, Caspar, we gotta have a plan,” Raphael says, backing up the far more timid archer. His lumbering head turns to Shamir with an arched brow. “Right?”

Shamir nods. “We knew this job would be more difficult than the others, but this is different. The Triumvirate are not behaving the way we thought they would. We’ll have to course correct.”

“Well, they’re not coming after us yet. Might as well test out the skeleton key,” Leonie says.

“That’s not a bad idea. But we’ll want to be careful. We can’t have them predicting our movements like they did at the palace,” Shamir says.

“But we were the ones predicting them,” Petra says, almost as if it’s a question.

Shamir sighs. “Yes, we were. But they still knew we were coming. If we didn’t have the wyverns, we would’ve lost. We need to be more careful.”

“Are you worried they might lay another trap for us?” Dedue asks, the first time he’s spoken so far.

“I am,” Shamir admits.

“You’re not just worried about that sheriff?” Cyril asks so quietly no one else hears it.

Shamir shoots him an accusatory glare. The young Almyran doesn’t back down. He just returns the stare, only breaking eye contact when she does. She isn’t sure what makes her more angry. The fact that Cyril would dare make such an insinuation, or that he’s right.

Shamir had never expected to see Cassandra - err, Catherine - again. As far as she was aware, the young noble was dead. She and her Relic lost to Fodlan after the Tragedy. Shamir had come to terms with that. She’d accepted that she’d never see her again. But there she was. Alive and well. Hiding out in Zanado of all places. So uncomfortably close to Charon territory and their shared pasts. But somehow, wholly and completely hidden from the world and those that once knew her. Shamir included.

It hurt to know she was alive and hadn’t told Shamir. Hadn’t even attempted to reach out. Not that Shamir stuck around after the Tragedy to be reached out to. But it hurt, all the same. More than anything, Catherine’s presence (and her role) in Zanado makes this whole endeavor that much more difficult. Not impossible, of course, but certainly more difficult.

First thing’s first: finding out how useful this skeleton key really is.

* * *

“We have a key that can open anything?” Lady Byleth asks, her voice somehow staying level despite her obvious growing ire.

“We do,” Lady Rhea answers.

“Why?” Byleth asks. She looks between her contemporaries’ blank faces, her scowl only deepening. “What possible reason could we have for owning a skeleton key? A skeleton key so powerful it would leave us crippled if it fell into the wrong hands? Which, mind you, it already has!”

“We didn’t commission the key, Byleth,” Lord Seteth says.

“Then who did?”

“The key was crafted years ago. Long before any of us were even born,” Rhea says.

“So why didn’t we change the locks? If we knew about the skeleton key, why not just get rid of the paired locks. Or better yet, destroy the key itself. None of us have ever even used the blasted thing.”

“It’d be far too expensive to try and change all the locks throughout the city,” Rhea says.

“Right, of course. Why don’t we just keep the one thing that could bankrupt the whole city in an easily accessible part of the palace for anyone to steal just to try and save a bit of gold?” Byleth starts pacing up and down the drawing room. “Why is it I’m the only Triumvir in this room who hasn’t heard about this until now?” Her sharp gaze falls on Catherine now. The sheriff’s stomach drops under the younger woman’s gaze. She can feel the color draining from her face. “Even Catherine knew before me.”

“The fewer people knew, the better,” Rhea says. “And don’t blame Catherine, she also just found out.”

Byleth rounds on the other two Triumvirs. “How many people know?”

“Outside this room?” Seteth looks up at the ceiling and pretends to count off on his fingers. “Well, Robin Hood and her fellow bandits for sure. So that’s about six people. Plus any previous Triumvirs that are still alive. And I suppose the Goddess herself. So I don’t know, maybe a dozen?”

“Robin Hood had to have found out somehow. Someone had to have let it slip.” Byleth glances at Catherine once more. She gestures between the two of them. “It wasn’t us because we both apparently just found out.” Her eyes fall on Rhea and Seteth. “Since we only just found out, I’d wager it wasn’t either of you.” Her sharp green eyes look between the three of them. “So who could it have been?”

Catherine watches as Rhea and Seteth exchange a nervous glance. Rhea’s gaze drags away from Seteth to slide over Catherine and Byleth.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Rhea says.

Byleth’s gaze narrows at the other Triumvir’s. “You put us all in danger by keeping that skeleton key.”

Rhea takes in a deep breath. “We know.”

* * *

The first target is a storehouse near the outskirts of Zanado. It’s close enough to the outer walls that they can easily slip away back into the surrounding forest. It’s also far enough away from both the Triumvirate and the police station that if anyone’s alerted to their presence, the authorities will take a minute to get there. It’s also a very small storehouse. And though it is owned by the Triumvirate - as evidenced by their seal emblazoned on the large sliding doors - it’s rarely guarded and even more rarely used. So the chances of anyone seeing them access it is slim, at best.

They don’t need their whole band for this one. Cyril, Shamir, and Dedue can handle the infiltration on their own. But they still bring Ignatz, just in case, to act as a lookout.

As they surmised, the storehouse is barely attended. The only guard on duty is some aged police officer that looks about as old as all of Zanado. He’d likely been given the position just to give him something to do. You generally don’t expect someone that old to actually be able to do anything other than keel over and drop dead at the first sign of danger.

Thankfully, the old man is asleep. He’s propped up on a chair in a booth outside the storehouse. His mouth is wide open. The only indication he’s alive, aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest, is the occasional muttering he utters in his sleep.

Despite that, Shamir makes it clear they’re to avoid waking him and involving him in this. Not only do they not want any witnesses, but she’s sure he wouldn’t make it out of any skirmish that might arise from this.

So, as a single unit, the four of them meander around to the back of the storehouse. Normally, they’d try to be at least a little inconspicuous. But with how lax the security is here (not just at the storehouse, but in this part of the city), they just don’t care enough. Ignatz and Cyril do keep their heads on a swivel, of course, to keep an eye out for anyone who might approach.

“Got a pair of sirs over here,” Cyril announces just as they reach the back doors. He turns around and crosses his arms, jerking his head backwards.

Shamir faces Cyril and looks over his shoulder. Sure enough, there are two officers just up the road. They’re milling about in a nearby market. They look to be lower ranked based on the uniforms alone. Chances are they’re here on break, as there haven’t been any patrols in this area since Shamir and her fellows first arrived in Zanado.

Interestingly enough, one of the officers has a bow on his person. While Shamir is no expert, he is the first officer she’d seen with one. She had thought the police force of Zanado were rather standardized, but here’s someone who threw that idea right out the window. Either he’s an exception, some higher ranked important officer she doesn’t know of, or he’s breaking protocol. She’s willing to bet he’s simply an exception.

“Keep an eye on them,” Shamir instructs Ignatz. “And do try not to draw their attention.”

“I always try not to,” Ignatz says firmly.

“Then we should be fine,” Shamir says coolly.

She walks back over to the storehouse doors where Dedue is waiting. He arches a brow at her, silently asking if everything’s alright. She nods in answer.

Shamir procures the skeleton key from one of her many pockets. It doesn’t look like any key she’d ever seen before. It’s just a long bit of metal with a wide, flat end. The normal ridges of a key are not there. Just holding the strange metal feels wrong. Like it’s alive, almost. Damn magic. Always makes things feel that much weirder. Sure, the skeleton key could be the linchpin in her plan, but it still didn’t feel any less weird.

She swallows the discomfort and slots the key into the keyhole. The lock turns over as easily as if the skeleton key in Shamir’s hand were the real key.

Since the key worked, they now know the key works on most, if not all, Triumvirate owned locations. They had assumed as much, but knowing that’s true only makes the Triumvirate seem even more short-sighted than they originally thought.

Cyril and Dedue help Shamir open the hefty doors. They manage to pry the barn doors apart near silently. They leave an opening just big enough for the three of them to slip through and into the darkness within. Shamir checks with Ignatz once more to make sure he’s okay before dipping inside.

They have no idea what’s being held in this storehouse. But they could use any supplies that are here. They’re running low on food, both for them and the wyverns. Their medical supplies are running low as well. No one got too badly hurt during the fight at the palace, but they don’t want to be caught with their pants around their ankles if someone gets hurt or sick any time soon. And Shamir needs a new bow, desperately.

Yeah, they have a fair amount of gold after stealing from those nobles and merchants, but a lot of it is stamped from other territories. If they were to try and buy something with it in this city, they’d draw some curious gazes and unwanted attention. And they’ve yet to find a blacksmith they can trust in this city to melt it down into unmarked gold bars for them. So, yes. They’re gonna steal some shit. It’s kinda what they do.

Cyril’s eyes adjust to the darkness first. He guides them through the storehouse with quiet directions and the occasional warning to not knock over that basket full of ball bearings because anyone outside will _for sure_ hear it.

“What do we got, Cyril?” Shamir whispers.

She can just barely see him as he peers into another box. “Mostly just spare parts. Ball bearings, locks, files, that sort of stuff.”

“Mostly?” Dedue asks, picking up on the same word Shamir did.

Shamir sees the young Almyran nod, her eyes slowly adjusting. “There are a few boxes of arrowheads, daggers, and spearheads near the back.”

“Anything worth taking?” Dedue asks.

“Any bows?” Shamir presses.

“I’m still looking,” Cyril answers calmly.

He turns from them both and pries open another crate. He closes it almost as quickly as he opens it before moving on to the next. Shamir and Dedue follow close behind. It’s not until ten crates later that their eyes finally adjust and they’re able to start searching as well.

Unfortunately, it’s just as Cyril surmised. Mostly spare parts. No wonder there’s only one aged guard left out front.

Shamir’s about ready to turn around and pack it in when something catches her eye.

Hidden behind a few crates near the back of the storehouse, where they came in from, is a chest. The hard wood was stained a dark cherry color, though at this point it’s all but chipped away. The metal fittings are made of iron and are relatively worn down and rusted. It’s smaller than all the crates in this room and easily overlooked from its hiding place.

Shamir immediately abandons the umpteenth crate of arrowheads she’d found. Her movements attract both Dedue and Cyril’s attention.

“Find something?” Cyril asks.

“Maybe,” Shamir answers.

She kneels in front of the small chest. Procuring the skeleton key once more, she inserts the uncomfortable metal into the keyhole. The lock turns over just as easily as the storehouse lock did.

So not only are the Triumvirate’s properties accessible via the skeleton key, but so are old and probably long forgotten chests hidden in an otherwise pointless storehouse. How careless are the Triumvirate?

The chest creaks open.

“It’s empty?” Dedue asks. He and Cyril had both come over to loom over Shamir and look into the chest with her.

“Perhaps not,” Shamir says.

She reaches her hand into the coiffer. Her fingers make contact with the bottom of the coiffer carefully. The wood feels smoother than it ought to based on how worn it looks. It gives a little under pressure. She lifts her hand from its surface and decides to knock on the bottom. Sure enough, there’s a hollow sound that follows.

Shamir moves quickly, grabbing the dagger from her belt, and starts attempting to pry the false bottom out of the chest. She flips the dagger around mindlessly with one hand, while the other searches the chest for a button or lever of some sort. Beneath the chest, and behind one of its legs, she finds an iron lever. Pulling it down, the bottom of the chest pops upward. Shamir wedges her dagger between the false bottom and the outer walls of the chest. With a careful and practiced motion, she pries open the wooden bottom.

Sitting in the much smaller space is a worn, leather pouch. The pouch is tied off with a coarse fiber that looks like it might have once been adorned with gold leaf.

Shamir grabs the pouch. It’s heftier than it looks, which means it’s some sort of metal. Sure enough, it’s filled with gold pieces. Somewhere around 200 gold pieces.

“That’s it?” Cyril asks. “Awful lot of fanfare for just a bit of gold.”

Shamir shrugs. “Does it matter?” She holds one of the gold pieces between her fingers and examines it. It’s got Zanado’s stamp on it. She lifts the piece higher so both Dedue and Cyril can see it. “We can actually use this gold here.”

It’s then that there’s a familiar knock at the back door. All three of their heads snap up in the direction of the door.

“Time’s up,” Shamir says.

She cinches the pouch full of gold and tosses it to Cyril. He and Dedue move to the doors and start sliding them back apart. Shamir works about resealing the coiffer and making it look like they were never there.

“Let’s go,” Cyril whispers at her. “Someone’s coming.”

Shamir shuts the coiffer and locks it again with the skeleton key - only a bit more hastily than she normally would. She slips the key back into its hiding place and darts out of the storehouse. She helps Cyril and Dedue shut the doors. From the back of the storehouse she can’t see who it is that’s approaching or where they are, but based on how fidgety Ignatz is, they’re close.

“We should _really_ get going,” he whispers at them.

“Almost there, Ignatz,” Cyril answers.

Ignatz mutters something to himself that Shamir doesn’t care to hear. She makes sure to lock the door to the storehouse with the skeleton key.

“Let’s go,” she orders the three others.

Pressing up against the rear of the storehouse, they leave. Shamir doesn’t glance over her shoulder and hopes the others do the same. They don’t want to draw any more attention if someone was already heading in their direction.

It’s just as they reach the street and the surprising amount of foot traffic that whoever it was calls out to them.

“Hey!”

Just the one word. Sharp. Succinct. Powerful. But also a little nervous.

Immediately, the four of them disperse in the crowd. Hoods are pulled up and they weave between bodies so quickly and calmly, they’re immediately lost. Shamir’s sure of it. And it’s that confidence in their ability to hide coupled with her own curiosity, that she circles back and approaches the storehouse once more. Though she stays well enough away, hiding out in the market pretending to be inspecting an orange.

She glances at the storehouse, between bodies and around stalls, to see the same two officers from before. She silently curses to herself that they’re there now, but reminds herself to thank Ignatz later.

One of the officers is trying to fight their way into the throng of people to find where Shamir and her fellows went. Of course, they’re all long gone, and the officer will never find any of them.

The other officer, the one with the bow, is standing at the back of the storehouse. He has his hands on his hips and is staring after the other officer, who is probably his partner, with a deepening frown. He shakes his head and walks toward the storehouse. The officer bends over and inspects the lock. He lifts it up, spins it around, and tries to look for any tampering. He scowls irritably and pulls something from his pocket. Something rather small that Shamir can’t make out at this distance. And he… did he just put it in the lock? Is that a key?

He pulls his hand away and stuff it in his pocket, likely stowing whatever the object was. His scowl deepens.

So it wasn’t a key… it couldn’t have been a lockpick. Could it? Why would a police officer have a lockpick? And why would he only use the one pick to pick a lock? You need two. Unless… unless he was trying to find out if the lock was damaged from a failed break-in.

 _Smart_ , Shamir thinks to herself. But why would a police officer know to do that?

The other officer returns to the archer. They have some sort of discussion that Shamir doesn’t hear, but can surmise the outcome of. The other officer wanders off leaving the archer alone at the storehouse.

Shamir doesn’t stick around any longer. More officers will be on their way. Meaning Catherine is probably among them. The last thing she needs is to run into her again.

* * *

The moment Catherine hears about some suspicious hooded figures seen near the outskirts of Zanado, she practically runs to where they’re last seen. It’s the first lead she has that might have anything to do with Shamir. It’s been days since they stole the skeleton key and they haven’t used it once. Or at least she doesn’t think they have.

With a key that can access everything within Zanado that isn’t privately owned, Shamir could be using it to steal from anyone. And if she’s as smart as Catherine remembers her being, she’d be able to do it within getting caught or even raising suspicion. So of course she leaps at the first whisper of a lead.

Gilbert accompanies her to the storehouse where Robin Hood was supposedly sighted earlier that day.

The first thing Catherine notes is how sparsely guarded it is. There are three officers here in total. The officer who came and informed her and Gilbert of the findings, a younger officer wielding a bow, and a sleeping man in a booth who looked like death itself. Which means only the slumbering grandfather had been guarding this storehouse for who knows how long.

Catherine stalks towards the guard booth and slams a hand down on the wall.

The old man cracks open a single eye. His mouth is contorted into the most irritable scowl Catherine has ever seen. He’s surely about to yell at her for waking him up. That is until his gaze tracks down to the badge on Catherine’s breastplate.

He bolts upright at a speed Catherine would’ve thought would break a hip. He manages an awkward salute, spluttering his apologies and courtesies in the garbled manner of someone recently woken from what was probably a well needed nap.

The old man’s back stiffens as he attempts to sound at least a little formal. “Sheriff Catherine, I wasn’t expecting you to drop by today. To what do I owe--?”

“Tell me, officer, how long would you say you’ve been asleep for?” she asks, her patience already far too thin for this conversation.

His lips smack a few times as he struggles to come up with a believable lie. “Well, if I’m being honest, I don’t know, ma’am.”

Catherine nods. “That’s what I was afraid of.” She glances at the storehouse. “You got the keys to the storehouse?”

“Uh, yeah… Yes! Yes. Right, uh, right here.”

The old man jostles a heft keyring off of the wall of his booth and presents it to Catherine. His arm shakes. It’s hard to tell if it’s from nerves, fear, or simply from being the oldest person alive.

Catherine takes the keyring and gives the old man a curt nod. “Thank you.”

She stalks away from him and toward the storehouse. Gilbert is close at her heels, the other two officers not far behind him.

“Do you think you could’ve handled that better?” Gilbert asks her, his tone hushed.

Catherine shrugs. She glances over her shoulder back at the slightly shaking older man. “Maybe.”

She argues with the keyring a few moments before managing to find the right one. She instructs the two officers to drag open the hefty doors to the storehouse. They hasten to comply with quick and stilted “ _yes, ma’am_ ”s.

Catherine takes a step forward and looks out into the storehouse. She narrows her gaze as she stares into the semi-dark within.

“Which one of you spotted the thieves?” She asks.

The officer with the bow steps forward. “That would be me, sheriff.”

Catherine turns to the youth and gives him a once over. He’s young. Or perhaps just short. He has silver hair and soft eyes. Despite his slight figure, he holds his chin high and walks with a sense of purpose Catherine would not have expected of someone like him.

“Officer Ashe Duran… right?” she asks.

“Yes, sheriff,” he says.

“Have you already done an inventory check?”

“No. The guard told me to piss off when I tried waking him. He doesn’t much care for ‘ _yuppies_ ’ like me, ma’am.”

Catherine stifles a laugh. “I’m sure.” She looks back into the storehouse. “Do you know what this storehouse is for?”

“Mostly spare parts and munitions, sheriff. This place is basically just backup storage. The majority of the stuff in here is rather outdated. But there used to be a chest in the back with valuables in it.”

“How do you know that?”

The archer pulls his shoulders back and lifts his head a bit higher. “I, uh, used to work here. Back before I became an officer. I did inventory when this storehouse was a bit better trafficked.”

Catherine glances at the guard in his booth. The old man is still standing stock still, his gaze flashing in her direction every few moments. “Think you could do inventory for me one last time, officer?”

Ashe beams. “Of course. Yes! I’ll go get the log!”

Catherine glances over to the other officer. “Lend him a hand, will you?”

Color drains from their face. “Y-yes ma’am!” they stammer out before running after Ashe.

Gilbert sidles up alongside Catherine. He doesn’t say anything, however. He just sort of stands there, glancing at her.

“Don’t start,” she says.

“I didn’t say anything,” Gilbert says.

“Yeah, but you were thinking it.”

* * *

It’s less than an hour later when Ashe and the other officer return to Catherine and Gilbert. Ashe’s beaming smile is still bright on his face, while the other officer blanches immediately upon standing before them both.

“All done, sheriff,” the officers say in unison, one far more excitedly than the other.

Catherine takes the log from the young officers and skims through it. When she reaches the end, her gaze lifts to Ashe Duran.

“Everything’s accounted for?” she asks.

Ashe nods sagely. “Of course we couldn’t check the chest in the back. We don’t have the key.”

“Hmm.” Catherine hands the log back to Ashe. “Show me the chest.”

The young man nods again. He turns on the spot and walks back into the storehouse. Gilbert and Catherine follow shortly behind him, around several crates, to the back of the storehouse. The chest is half-hidden behind a few of the boxes and crates. It’s hidden so well and is so small it’d be miraculous if anyone had been able to find it. But if Shamir was anything, it was miraculous.

Catherine steps toward the chest and fumbles with the keyring until she finally finds the correct one. The small, worn chest pops open to reveal its contents had been emptied.

“It’s empty…” Gilbert trails off, seeming to think that’s enough evidence to assume a theft was committed.

“Th-there’s a false bottom,” Ashe chimes in. “There’s a lever behind the front left leg.”

Catherine gives the young officer a reproachful look. He simply stares at the chest and makes a motion with his hand that he probably thinks looks like he’s pulling a lever. Catherine shakes her head before reaching underneath the chest for the lever. Sure enough, there is one. The false bottom pops up, but only just. Catherine uses one of the longer keys from the key ring to pry open the false bottom of the coiffer.

Her breath hitches in her chest once it’s opened. She hears Gilbert shifting behind her to shield the chest, and Catherine, from the younger officers.

“What is it?” Ashe asks. “I saw something.”

“It’s evidence for an investigation given to the sheriff by the Triumvirate. I’d suggest not asking too many questions,” Gilbert says.

“Right. Yes. Of course.” Ashe responds.

But Catherine doesn’t hear the rest of their conversation.

At the bottom of the chest, in the hidden compartment, is a single piece of paper. And on that paper is a drawing. This drawing is the second most realistic drawing of an arachnid that Catherine has ever seen. Catherine’s not sure what sort of arachnid it is, or if it’s even based on a real one. But she recognizes the skill and style behind it all the same.

Catherine immediately reaches for the note. In the back of her mind, she worries about whether or not there’s some sort of trick here. Like the chest had been rigged with a booby trap or other mechanism in case anyone attempted to grab at its contents, but in truth she doesn’t care.

The paper is of the same stock as the last note Robin Hood had left. And just like the last note, there’s a simple message on the back of it. Only instead of a list of crimes, there are only two words. Words which were undoubtedly written with Catherine in mind.

_Miss me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a minute since i updated this, so sorry. but since the world went on indefinite hiatus, i've lost basically all of my creative juices. i'm not abandoning this fic (or my other fic), i'm just taking things slowly is all
> 
> that being said... thoughts?


	4. Worth a Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not actually thinking of joining, are you?” Cyril asks incredulously. “It’s obviously a trap.”
> 
> “I know,” Shamir says.
> 
> Cyril blinks at her. “So why would you enter the tournament?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on twitter/instagram (@bridgetserdock) or on tumblr (@bridgetserdocksketches)

“Robin Hood’s struck again,” Gilbert says.

“Already?” Catherine groans.

It’s a sentence Catherine is getting all too familiar with hearing. Ever since the warehouse, it’s as if Shamir’s greed has become insatiable. She and her fellow bandits have stolen from, broken into, or trespassed on at least one Triumvirate owned location a day. Not to mention the private residences and business they’ve ransacked as well. Catherine would only just show up at the scene of one crime when word would reach her that another of their hooded bunch attacked somewhere else.

What was more irritating was how selective they were about it. They weren’t targeting people based on what wealth they had available. They broke into one of the Triumvirate’s vaults, but stole nothing. Instead, a note that read “out to lunch” was left behind (this one sporting a very crude drawing of what was probably meant to be a bug). When they went after one of the upper class members of Zanado, they only stole a family heirloom according to the head of house. Of course, later that day the “heirloom” showed up in Catherine’s office along with another of Shamir’s arachnid illustrations. Turns out the heirloom was actually the missing murder weapon from a cold case from long before Catherine made it to Zanado. How Shamir knew about it was beyond Catherine.

If that wasn’t enough, Shamir started doing something else Catherine never expected. She was redistributing wealth.

It was hard to notice at first. It was small, indirect, and carefully calculated. While the wealthiest of the city started hoarding their wealth even more aggressively, the poorer residents seemed to be thriving. Well, maybe not thriving, but overall health in the city went up. Of course, it is the summer so that tends to be the case anyway. But on top of that, crime in the city went down. Again this was hard to notice what with Shamir and her fellows running rampant throughout the city. But, after Seteth suggested looking into it, it became evidently clear the only ones committing any crimes were Shamir and her fellows. Lastly, the economy was booming. People were purchasing more, both of what they needed and what they didn’t. The lower levels of the city seemed to be thriving.

It wasn’t until Catherine mistook a random citizen for Shamir that she figured out what was going on (after almost arresting the woman on sight). The citizen told her that Robin Hood was helping them. That she and her band of merry men (the citizen’s words, not Catherine’s) were giving them gold and food and medicine.

It’s infuriating... And also a little impressive.

“Who did she go after this time?” Catherine asks as she finishes signing another status report for the Triumvirate.

“Lord Arundel.”

The quill in Catherine’s hand snaps. “Shit.” Her gaze flickers to Gilbert’s. His sour grimace reflecting her own. “What did they take?”

“A lot.”

“ _Shit_ ,” she repeats. She stands from her desk and grabs her sword belt off the hook behind it. “Let’s head on over before he causes a scene.”

“A bit late for that. He’s already requested a hearing with the Triumvirate,” Gilbert explains.

Catherine sighs, clasping her sword belt at her waist. “Alright, well, let’s get over there, then.”

“Lead the way,” Gilbert says, falling into step behind her.

* * *

When they arrive, Arundel is already in the Triumvirate’s chambers. The guards standing outside say as much, not that either Catherine or Gilbert need them to. They can already hear him orating at the Triumvirate like the self-righteous prick they know he is. Catherine isn’t particularly keen on waiting to be welcomed into the chambers. And seeing how Lord Arundel decided on such an impromptu meeting with the Triumvirate without accessing the proper channels, he can’t exactly bar her from entering.

So she goes in.

“--I would think you would’ve found this bandit by now,” Volkhard Arundel says. He barely even reacts as Catherine and Gilbert enter the council chambers. “He is a public menace. He is unsettling the balance of this city. And now he has invaded my home and stolen from _me_. He has no limits.”

“Very few thieves do, Lord Arundel,” Lord Seteth seethes.

As Catherine circles the ambassador to stand sentinel for the Triumvirate, his pale eyes fall on her. “How kind of you to join us, Sheriff Catherine. I was wondering when you’d come to apologize for your lapse in security measures.”

Catherine forces a smile. The sort of smile she learned to wear as a kid, when she was being groomed to become the head of her house. “As much as I would love to do that, Lord Arundel, you’ve rebuked my offers of added security... I believe four times now. This latest break-in is a failing of your own security detail and not my officers.”

He scowls. “Be that as it may, you have still failed to capture him.”

“As has every other police force Robin Hood has come in contact with. Even those within your own territory, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Lord Arundel, I’m afraid I don’t understand the point of this meeting,” Lady Rhea says before the venom hiding behind Catherine’s words finds its way out. “Do you simply intend to belittle us for not succeeding in something no one else has? Or do you intend to offer some help in the matter?”

Lord Arundel turns back to the Triumvirate, already tired of Catherine. “I can’t offer any men, if that’s what you’re asking. The Empire can’t spare even a single soldier for a petty thief, even if he has stolen from our Ambassador. What I do offer, however, is a potential solution.”

Gilbert and Catherine exchange a wary glance. Lord Seteth leans forward, curiosity crinkling his brow. Lady Byleth straightens her back, bristling slightly at the suggestion. Only Lady Rhea remains unaffected.

“Go on,” Lord Seteth says.

The Adrestian Ambassador’s grin turns smug. “As I understand it, our thief has a penchant for the theatrics. What with the hoods and the spiders and the notes. He prefers his secrecy, sure, but he still wants to be seen. He wants us to know it was him who stole from us. Yes?”

“Sure,” Lady Byleth plays along, far less enthusiastically than Seteth.

“Why not use that to our advantage?” Lord Arundel suggests.

Lady Rhea’s gaze narrows. “What do you have in mind?”

“We set a trap.”

“I’d imagine that’s been done before. What makes you think you’ll be able to catch him?” Lord Seteth asks.

Catherine and Gilbert exchange another glance, hopefully unseen by Arundel. For whatever reason, the Triumvirate are not sharing with Lord Arundel that they’d already tried (and failed) to catch Robin Hood. Not only that, but they’re letting the Ambassador believe the thief is a man, even though they know the opposite to be true.

“Because everyone who’s ever tried to capture him has believed that he is driven solely by greed. My own men included in that.” His eyes slid over to Catherine at that, a small concession and apology in his gaze. “But since he’s arrived in this city, and has been around much longer than last I dealt with him, it’s become evidently clear he is driven by other desires. The first being the desire to help. Obviously, or he wouldn’t be spending the time helping out the common folk. The second is his pride.”

Catherine had to fight the urge to laugh in his face. Shamir is a lot of things. Cold. Calculating. Abrasive. Brilliant. Talented. Selfless. And yes, even proud. But none of those features define her. She’s far more than that. No amount of pride would ever goad her into walking into a trap. She’s far too clever for that.

“Pride?” Lady Byleth’s question mirrors Catherine’s incredulity. “What makes you think someone who redistributes wealth to the needy, someone who hardly ever leads a single heist, someone who isn’t even on every heist attributed to him, someone who has never even shown his face, would be driven by _pride_?”

It’s a good question. And with the way she worded it, one that would probably result in a lot of anger. But not with Lord Arundel. Not this man. No, he is far more likely to smile to your face while spitting in your tea than show his cards.

So instead of yelling, in a very calm and controlled voice he says, “Because, he is one of two archers in his merry band, and he’s the _significantly_ more skilled one at that. He might not always be on a heist, but it’s his mark that’s left behind. And his name is on the lips of all the common folk who he helps. Not any of the other thieves. Just him. Someone not driven by pride would not have that sort of impact.”

As much as Catherine hates to admit it… he has a point.

“Alright,” Byleth nods. She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. “How do you suggest we do this?”

Lord Arundel’s grin turns past smug into something a bit more vile. “That’s rather simple. We hold an archery tournament.”

“We?” Lord Seteth latches onto the word. Knowing full well that if Arundel gets involved things will get significantly more… political.

Arundel’s expression drops. He still wears a smile, but this one doesn’t come near to reaching his eyes. “I’m willing to provide the pot for the victor. Something that will entice Robin Hood to come out of hiding. As if the tournament itself isn’t enough. But it will be your tournament. Your capture. Your thief. I simply want the man off the streets.”

“You really think Robin Hood will enter the tournament, Lord Arundel?” Lady Rhea asks.

“I do.”

Rhea turns to Catherine. “Do you think it will work?”

Catherine blinks at Rhea. She wasn’t prepared for her opinion on the matter to be addressed just yet. But then again, the Triumvirate have been trusting her intuition on everything regarding Robin Hood thus far. It shouldn’t be a surprise they’d do so now. Even if Volkhard Arundel is in the room.

“It might,” Catherine concedes. Her gaze flashes to Arundel’s smug grin before returning to Rhea. “But I’m not sure we’ll be able to identify the thief even if he does enter.”

“Oh, he won’t just enter. He’ll win,” Lord Arundel says.

Catherine shrugs in defeat. “It’s worth a shot.”

* * *

The market has a jittery, excited energy to it today. The sort of energy that permeates even the grumpiest of souls just before a holiday. Only, it’s the middle of the summer. There are no upcoming holidays. Unless Zanado has some weird traditions that Shamir isn’t yet aware of (which wouldn’t be much of a surprise).

As she’s looking around at the market, the merchant whose wares she was browsing speaks up.

“It’s the tournament,” he explains, unprompted. “Got everyone excited.”

Shamir turns to him lazily. “What tournament?”

“The Triumvirate’s hosting an archery tournament at the end of the week. Offering up some big prize for the winner.”

Shamir arches a brow at the man. “Archery’s a rare skill. Why would everyone be so excited about it?”

“You must be new,” the merchant droles. “Tournaments in Zanado are a pretty big deal. They’re never _just_ a tournament. There’ll be a feast, which will be the biggest meal most of these people see until the Goddess Festival. There’s gonna be games for the common folk to play, and ideally win. And on top of that, there is a very…” - he pauses to lean across his counter, lowering his voice to a whisper - “lucrative opportunity for some high risk trading. If you know what I mean.”

“Hmm,” Shamir nods.

The merchant stands up straight again. “Besides, everyone’s been in a pretty good mood since a certain someone decided to stop in our fair city.” He gives her a knowing smile. “All but the nobles, that is.”

Shamir smirks at him. “They rarely like change.” She passes a few gold coins over to the merchant, grabs her supplies, and turns to leave. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

* * *

“You’re not actually thinking of joining, are you?” Cyril asks incredulously. “It’s obviously a trap.”

“I know,” Shamir says.

Cyril blinks at her. “So _why_ would you enter the tournament?”

“Have you seen what the prize is, Cyril? We could really use that,” Leonie says.

“Not that badly,” Cyril argues.

“We don’t need to be exposing ourselves like this,” Ignatz pipes up.

“We’ve already been exposed. Why not go all out?” Caspar offers. “Show ‘em who’s boss.”

“We are not having need for arrows of gold,” Petra announces. “We have need of being hidden.”

“We’ve dealt with worse in the past,” Raphael waves off her concern. “Those golden arrows can help pay for food and medicine. Food that our wyverns desperately need if we’re gonna go anywhere after this is done.”

“We can get that food and medicine another way,” Cyril practically shouts.

“It would be reckless to enter the tournament just for food and medicine,” Dedue says flatly.

“Thank you!” Cyril exclaims.

“Unless there is another reason for Shamir to enter the tournament,” Dedue adds.

All eyes fell on the Duscurman. He barely reacts to it, his eyes trained solely on Shamir. When the group of young thieves finally silences and they all turn to her, she sighs. She stands up and places her hands on her hips.

“Yes, we could use the arrows. But no, we don’t need them. And yes, it’s obviously a trap. And of course, we don’t need that sort of scrutiny. But…” Shamir pauses to look over all their faces. “If they turn the tournament into an opportunity to catch Robin Hood, to catch _me_ , all of Zanado will see it.”

Cyril’s eyes go wide with realization. “You plan to turn public opinion against the Triumvirate.”

“I do.”

* * *

In the final days leading up to the tournament, it seemed as if Shamir had gone underground. Sure, her merry men were still causing mayhem wherever they went, but there was never any sighting of Robin Hood. It’s like she’d disappeared. Lord Arundel believes it means she’s training for the tournament. But Shamir was always a devil with a bow. If she really did go into hiding, it meant something else entirely. Catherine’s just not sure what.

Of course, the Triumvirate don’t heed her concerns. Neither does Arundel. Not that she’s surprised, of course. They’re far too busy planning for the tournament.

There was a lot involved in hosting a tournament. They had to advise all the neighboring lords and territories of the tournament, as well as sending word to the three reigning powers of Fodlan. They didn’t expect an answer from any of the three monarchs, but it was customary to advise them all the same.

Then there was the food. It was expected that the Triumvirate would feed anyone who came to the tournament. So there came the issue of sourcing the food, finding a cook, organizing the production of such large quantities of food, and then distribution. It was the middle of the summer, which meant there wasn’t much available to harvest from local farms. But Lord Seteth had a contact in the Leicester Alliance who was willing to help out.

Then there was the small issue of location. There really isn’t anywhere within the walls of Zanado with enough room to safely host an archery tournament. Literally any other sort of tournament could be conducted. Jousting. Brawling. Sword fighting. Even horse racing. But archery? If they even attempted that within the bounds of the city, something was going to get damaged beyond repair. Or someone. Thankfully, to the north of the city - opposite to the forest that Shamir and her merry men were hiding in - was an open field large enough to host such an event. It was an ancient battlefield in some war no one alive remembers the cause of. It was also squarely between two gates along the northern wall, making it an ideal location.

And of course, there was the games and other entertainment for anyone who wasn’t participating in the tournament. Rhea spearheaded this part of the tournament. Her contacts to Enbarr brought in members of the Mittlefrank Opera Company to put on performances for the common folk.

Catherine wasn’t spared the need to help set up either. She was tasked with security, naturally. It was her job to figure out how best to capture Robin Hood if she showed up. Not only that, but just to enforce law and order during the tournament. And of course, she had to do it all on top of her actual job as the sheriff.

Catherine still refuses to believe Shamir’s foolish enough to even enter the tournament let alone win. But outside of admitting how she knows Shamir, she has no real way to convince the Triumvirate that this is pointless. So she goes along with it. And with Gilbert’s assistance, she determines the routes Shamir will most likely take when she assumedly wins the tournament. They figure out where to station their officers in waiting for that moment. They also establish anti-wyvern parameters for this very scenario.

“You’re worried,” Gilbert notes one day as they pour over scenarios once more.

Catherine lifts her gaze to his. “Well, yeah. We’ve already tried catching her once.”

“I don’t think you’re worried about her getting away.” Gilbert levels her with a gaze. “You’re worried about catching her.”

Catherine’s brow furrows. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Why would I be worried about that, Gilbert?”

“Because you’re scared. Of what she knows.”

Catherine’s shoulders tense and her expression drops. Fear crawls its way up her spine, and she fights the urge to react to what Gilbert’s saying.

“You’re afraid she’s going to put forth some evidence that the Triumvirate is corrupt. Specifically Rhea.”

Catherine doesn’t even attempt to stifle the relieved laugh that leaves her lips. “Don’t be ridiculous. They’re not corrupt.”

“As far as we know.”

Gilbert holds her gaze a moment longer. Catherine feels her mouth go dry at the meaning behind his words. She tears her gaze away from his and returns to the plans on the table between them.

“Let’s just figure this out.”

* * *

“It’s not too late to back out, you know,” Cyril says at Shamir’s side.

Neither of them are wearing their normal hoods. Shamir went even as far as to abandon her entire attire. She opted for something closer to what she used to wear before becoming Robin Hood. Tight black pants and shirt, under a teal jacket. Leather boots and belt to match the jacket. A steel pauldron on her left shoulder. And most importantly, the choker she hasn’t worn since she was young. The one thing she has left from Dagda. From her home.

“We’re doing this,” Shamir decides. She’d already decided, of course. But saying it aloud now, on the precipice of the tournament proper, helps.

Cyril sighs. “Good luck out there. I’ll see you when it’s over.”

Shamir glances his way and offers a smile, or at least her version of a smile. “One way or another.”

Cyril chuckles before walking off. “One way or another.”

* * *

All in all, they did a pretty good job at whipping together this impromptu tournament. If Catherine didn’t know any better, she’d say this must be something they do every year. And sure, maybe they do hold tournaments every year. But they normally have months to plan it. This time they had days.

The section they had set up for the archers is clearly cordoned off from the rest of the tournament, and it’s large enough for sixteen archers to shoot simultaneously. The targets are on the far side of the field, backed up to the wall so that even if an arrow goes wide it will hit harmlessly into the wall. There’s no room for error on this one.

The Mittlefrank Opera Company had showed up a few days ago and helped set up their own stage. Their head songstress, Manuela, insisted on it. “ _We appreciate the effort, but we’re the only ones who know what we need, dear. Of course you are welcome to help with heavy lifting_ ,” she had said directly to Lady Byleth. Whether the songstress knew the young woman was a Triumvir or not was unclear. But thankfully she’d said it to Byleth, who merely laughed it off, and not her contemporaries. The opera company is off in their own section singing, acting, dancing, and all around providing merriment for anyone walking past.

A large crowd is already gathered around the food vendors near the stands. Catherine can’t blame them. Even with Shamir’s influence, many of the lower class citizens have probably never seen so much food in their life.

From Catherine’s vantage point outside the Triumvirate box, she has the perfect view of the check-in line. More people have already signed up than Catherine had expected. This is going to be one long tournament based on how many entrants there already are. But so far, Shamir has not been among them.

“Any sign of him?”

Catherine doesn’t even have to look to see Lord Arundel walking up to her. She’d recognize that arrogant cadence in his voice anywhere.

“There’ve been a lot of people signing up for the tournament if that’s what you’re asking. Any one of them could be Robin Hood,” she answers flatly.

Of course, none of them are. Shamir still hasn’t shown her face. Yet.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s here. We’ll just have to wait for him to reveal himself in the tournament,” Arundel drones.

 _So why even ask?_ “Of course.”

Catherine finally glances over to the ambassador. He’s not alone. Flanking him is a much younger, somehow darker man with sharp features and a scalding glare. The young man wears dark robes with a high collar. His eyes are scouring the tournament with hawk-like attention. Something about him is incredibly unsettling.

“Who’s your shadow?” Catherine asks before she can stop herself.

Thankfully, Lord Arundel doesn’t take offense to her blunt question. He sighs before gesturing to the young man. “This is Hubert von Vestra. My niece’s vassal, and for some reason my companion for the tournament.”

The young man gives Lord Arundel a scathing look. “I’m here at Lady Edelgard’s behest. She merely wants information on the thief that has been plaguing this city. She also worries without proper assistance from the Empire, Zanado might fail in his apprehension.” His cold eyes turn on Catherine. “No offense, lady…” he trails off, fishing for a name. Maybe a house, as well. Any information on her.

“Just Catherine. I’m no lady,” Catherine says.

“My apologies,” Hubert says, but his tone suggests everything but. “I just assumed. You wield a relic, after all.”

Catherine’s hand finds its way to Thunderband’s hilt. “I get that a lot.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll allow you to return to your duties,” Lord Arundel says. “Don’t disappoint.”

Catherine watches the pair of tall, dark figures turn around and stalk away. It’s not until they’re far enough out of earshot that she mutters “Wouldn’t dream of it”.

Turning back to the field, all of her thoughts crash to the front of her brain. Her hand grips the hilt of Thunderbrand so tightly it loses feeling. Her breath stills and her eyes widen.

Standing on the pitch with a number of other entrants, wielding a tournament bow, is Shamir. Wearing what looks like the last outfit Catherine had seen her in when they were kids. It looks almost as if she is talking to the other entrants with the way they’d circled around her, but Catherine knows better. She’s ignoring them all. She doesn’t care about the other entrants. Her eyes are instead on the stands and the crowds just beyond the bounds of the field.

And then their gazes meet. Catherine releases her breath. Her grip on her sword loosens. Shamir lifts her head to Catherine. Casually. As if they weren’t effectively facing off on a battlefield.

 _She can’t be this stupid, can she?_ Catherine thinks.

Before she can even begin processing how to handle this, a horn blares from somewhere else on the pitch signalling the beginning of the festivities. Everyone’s attention is turned to the platform at the back of the field, just in front of the stands. Everyone’s attention, that is, except for Catherine. She can’t take her eyes off Shamir.

The archer’s gaze lingers on Catherine a few moments longer before joining the rest in front of the platform.

“Welcome, contestants!”

It’s only at the sound of Rhea’s voice that Catherine manages to look away. She turns her attention to the raised platform where Lady Rhea stands, flanked by the other Triumvirs. All three replete in finery. Even Lady Byleth dressed for the occasion, abandoning her usual armor.

“Welcome to the _first_ solely archery tournament held here at Zanado,” Lady Rhea continues. “The rules are simple. From the distance indicated by the judges, you will take aim at the targets. You will each have three shots per distance. The best of you will advance to the next round. With each round, the distance will be pushed back until there are two of you left. We will hold a shootout to determine the victor who will win…” She pauses and steps slightly to the side, giving Lord Seteth the room to step forward and present the prize. “A dozen golden arrows, courtesy of Lord Ambassador Arundel!”

Cheers erupt from the crowd, not necessarily in response to the golden arrows or mention of Arundel. The cheers are simply because everyone is excited for the festivities to get under way.

“Let the tournament begin!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	5. I Won't Lose You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shamir only stares back. “What are you doing, Catherine?”
> 
> Catherine’s back straightens. “My job.”
> 
> The archer takes a step forward. “So arrest me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are getting heated...

These tournament bows aren’t very good. The wood’s too stiff. The strings not quite stiff enough. And they’re all the same size. Thankfully, Shamir’s pretty average height, so it isn’t much of an issue for her. But some of the other contestants who are on the far side of average are struggling during the practice sessions before the tournament begins in earnest. There are only a handful of entrants that seem to not have any difficulty with the shoddy craftsmanship.

Shamir herself only loosed a few arrows. The first was less than ideal. The second better. The third perfect. She was tempted to keep it up, but she didn’t want to draw too much attention to herself. The early rounds of the tournament would suffice as enough practice.

As she walks off the practice pitch, yielding the target to a particularly boastful youth with a bow way too big for his height, she hears someone fall into step alongside her.

“Wow, that was some impressive shooting there.”

She glances over to the young man who decided she was the person he wants to talk to at this event. He’s of even height with her, his shock of silver hair hanging threateningly close to his soft greet eyes.

“Thanks. But it was mostly luck,” Shamir says, attempting to brush him off.

“Oh I doubt that. Your form is impeccable,” the young man says.

She stops in her tracks and crosses her arms. She looks him over again, closer this time. He looks moderately familiar, but she can’t place him. Despite his quiet voice and relaxed tone, he stands with confidence. The sort of confidence afforded to someone who more than deserves it. Looking at the way he holds the tournament bow, he clearly knows what he’s doing. Unlike some of these other entrants. Shamir doesn’t remember seeing him practice, but she doesn’t doubt he’s an expert.

The young man wears a heavy, sky blue coat over what appears to be some fine made clothing. Worn, fine made clothing. Well worn. Like he's the sort to wear something until it has filled its usefulness and not any sooner. No matter the quality of it.

Shamir still can’t place where she knows him from. That is until her eyes track down to his wrist and the insignia on the cuff there. The symbol of the police department. She looks back up at him.

_The archer from the warehouse._

“You’re an officer?”

He bristles slightly. “Oh, yeah.”

Shamir hastens to correct, not wanting him to realize how deeply uncomfortable competing against him makes her feel. “Sorry, I just didn’t realize you guys were allowed to enter these.”

“Oh, right,” the young man laughs a little. “Normally no, but this tournament isn’t like our normal tournaments.” He steps a little closer now, aiming for a conspiratorial tone. “Besides, I think the Triumvirate was looking to stack the cards a bit. If the rumors about Robin Hood are true.”

Shamir can’t help the self satisfied smirk that falls over her features now. “What rumors are that?”

“That he’s going to enter. From what I hear, the Triumvirate would _hate_ for him to win. Could you imagine the scandal?”

“That would be quite scandalous.”

The youth takes a step back and extends his hand with a broad smile. “I’m Ashe, by the way.”

She shakes his hand with a forced smile. “Shamir.” When he releases her hand, Shamir takes a step toward him, mimicking his conspiratorial pose from before. “Say, Ashe. How many of you guys entered this? I wanna know how stiff the competition is.”

It was almost painful to pretend to be even that conversational. But Shamir needed intel more than anything at this point. If the Triumvirate was packing the competition, Shamir might need to step up her game for this to work.

“Oh, it’s just me. We don’t have that many archers in our ranks. None that use a regular bow, anyway. They all prefer crossbows,” Ashe explains.

“Good to know. Thanks.”

As she turns to walk toward the starting zone, her gaze turns over to the stands. Making sure everyone who needs to be is in place. She spots Cyril over by the food stands. Petra and Caspar milling about in the audience. Ignatz and Raphael over by the games. Leonie and Dedue aren’t anywhere to be found, which means they’re probably also in position near the walls ready for a hasty escape.

It’s as her eyes track across the stands that she freezes. Her breath catches in her throat and her brow knits together.

 _Catherine_.

Of course she’s here. Shamir knew she would be. But even still. Seeing her now, the first time since their attack on the Triumvirate, sends a shock of fear through Shamir. It doesn’t last long, though. She swallows it, forcing it down and away from the front of her mind. As far down as it’ll go.

Staring at each other across the abandoned battlefield, Shamir reminds herself that Catherine has yet to rat her out or reveal her true name. Which means the esteemed sheriff is scared. Which in turn means Shamir has nothing to fear. So she nods at her.

Catherine’s reaction is immediate. Subtle, yes, but it’s there all the same. If Shamir hadn’t gotten to know her so well when they were kids, she surely wouldn’t notice the way her neck turns a shade pinker, or the way her brow pinches tighter, or the way her hand grips onto the relic at her side like it’s her only lifeline, or the way her knees lock into place. Her entire reaction makes one thing evidently clear: Shamir’s in her head. And now she knows it.

This is going to be interesting.

* * *

The first few rounds of the tournament do not go the way Catherine was expecting.

She knows, just from watching a few of the other entrants practice, that Shamir is miles better than anyone else. Even Ashe Duran, the officer Catherine instructed to enter the tournament and keep an eye out for Robin Hood, isn’t in her league. But for some reason, Shamir is barely making it past each round.

She never misses her target, but the shots are never perfect. They’re always just a little off. Just a little low. Just a little behind the leaders of the tournament. It’s like she’s trying to lose. Like she’s just messing with Catherine.

And of course she is. After every shot, she turns around and finds Catherine wherever she is in the crowd. Their eyes lock and Shamir nods. Again. Every damn time. It’s infuriating. Her cocky little smirk is always there, too. Like she’s so damn proud of that subpar shot. Like she’s trying to do poorly.

Wait…

What if she is? What if she’s actively trying to divert attention from herself? She must know that this is a trap, right? So what if she’s letting the other officers look at the other leaders? What if she wants to be ignored? So that no one suspects her? It wouldn’t be entirely out of character for her to do that.

But why? What would that possibly gain? How could passing through this tournament unnoticed benefit her in any way? If she wins, the Triumvirate will know she’s Robin Hood. If she doesn’t win, what is the damn point? Is she really just doing this to mess with Catherine? To prove a point? To prove that she knows what they’re doing? That she’s in their head? That she’s always, _always_ , one step ahead? Surely Shamir isn’t that narcissistic. Right? There’s no way that Lord Arundel was right about her motivations. He couldn’t possibly be right. That would mean Catherine’s wrong. It would mean she doesn’t really know Shamir. Not anymore.

As the tournament progresses, Shamir continues her steady progress forward, forever remaining near the bottom of entrants. She receives the least amount of applause and barely any attention from the Triumvirs. Even Ashe who Catherine was sure would be helpful today is ignoring the woman. And that stupid, smug little smirk of Shamir’s is only getting more and more infuriating as time wore on.

Finally they reach the halfway point. Lady Rhea announces as much, signalling the start of a brief reprieve during the tournament, to last no longer than thirty minutes. The contestants will use the time to rest and get in a few more practice shots. The citizens of Zanado, Catherine is certain, will use the time to change their bets based on how the tournament’s progressed thus far. She has other plans.

It doesn’t take much effort to find Gilbert. They were supposed to switch off at the halfway mark anyway, so he’s already on his way over when she reaches him.

“Everything alright?” He asks when she comes over.

She nods. “Yeah, just getting antsy.”

The look he gives her now suggests he doesn’t totally believe her, but he doesn’t press the issue. “Save your energy. Doesn’t seem like she’ll show.”

That’s laughable. She’s already here. But no one but Catherine knows that. As far as Gilbert and the Triumvirate is concerned, Robin Hood probably isn’t here. Because all they know is that Robin Hood is a woman. They don’t know that she’s the only woman still in the tournament who seems to be barely scraping by. Hell, they probably wrote Shamir off as a possibility in that first round.

“You’re probably right,” Catherine agrees. “Still antsy, though.”

Gilbert nods. “Try not to let your nerves get the better of you.”

“They’re not nerves,” she grumbles back. Even though they probably are.

“Of course not.”

They switch roles there and Catherine stalks off the stands. Her gaze tracks out to the tournament pitch to try and find Shamir. It takes seconds to pinpoint her in the dwindled group of contestants. She’s the only woman there and she’s standing off to the side, idly playing with the tournament bow. And of course she’s already looking at Catherine. Only there’s no smug grin there this time.

As their eyes lock, Shamir leans off the fence she was propped against. Without any signal or communication at all, she stalks off the pitch. But not quickly. She wants Catherine to see where she’s going. She wants her to follow. Catherine’s sure of it.

It was what she’d intended to do anyway, so Catherine does just that. There’s a small voice in the back of her mind telling her it’s probably a bad idea to follow the archer, that it might be a trap, or that Shamir is still trying to mess with her. But, at this point, she doesn’t care.

With a concerted effort to look nonchalant and not like she’s stalking the lowest ranking contestant in the tournament, Catherine follows her through the raucous, giddy crowd. She knows that Shamir could disappear into the crowd if she really wants to. Instead, Shamir stays a few paces ahead of her, maintaining a relatively safe distance between them without ever checking to make sure Catherine’s still there.

The archer peels off from the crowd and heads toward the entrance to the city. Catherine keeps up with her, making sure to not pick up her pace too quickly or draw too much attention.

As the archer leads Catherine farther from the tournament, the worry that this might actually be a trap that she’s so willingly walking into builds with each step. She’s so far away from the Triumvirate and her officers that if Shamir wanted to try anything, she’d be completely alone. And it didn’t exactly end all that well for her last time. But even still, she moves forward. Follows Shamir blindly.

It’s within the walls of Zanado that Shamir finally glances over her shoulder. Their gazes connect again and that stupid smirk is back. Catherine grips Thunderbrand reflexively, looking for something to ground her.

And then Shamir runs. She ducks down some side alley and disappears between the buildings. Catherine’s running after her immediately, her hand falling from Thunderband’s hilt. She takes a few lumbering steps into the alley before she realizes Shamir isn’t there. Even in the dim lighting, it’s very clear the archer had slipped away yet again.

“Is there a reason you’re following me, _sheriff_?”

Catherine jumps straight out of her skin. She spins around, her hand finding her sword again. When her eyes fall on Shamir, she drops her hands to her side and lets out an irritated growl.

“Goddess! I hate it when you do that,” She snaps.

Shamir only stares back. “What are you doing, Catherine?”

Catherine’s back straightens. “My job.”

The archer takes a step forward. “So arrest me.”

A pit forms in Catherine’s stomach. She doesn’t take a step back, but she can feel her confidence deflating. “I’m not… I didn’t follow you back here to arrest you.”

“No?” A perfect eyebrow lifts calculatingly.

Catherine grits her teeth irritably. “Drop out of the tournament, Shamir.”

“Don’t think I can win?”

“I know you can. That’s the problem.” The archer stares plaintively, forcing Catherine to explain what she means by that. “This whole tournament is a trap. You see that, don’t you? It’s to catch you. To put a stop to you.”

“Obviously I know that.”

“So why the hell are you entering it, then?” Catherine’s voice raises sharply. She sucks in air through flared nostrils. “You know what’ll happen if you win this thing, right? They’ll know who you are, Shamir. A woman from Dagda with ties to Charon territory. They won’t hesitate to deport you. Or worse.”

Shamir’s gaze narrows. “Really?”

“What?”

“You’re going to seriously pretend you’re worried about my safety?”

Catherine blinks at the other woman. “What are you talking about? Of course I am.”

“No you’re not. You just don’t want them to know who _you_ are. You think my ties to Charon territory are bad? What will happen to you when they find out the truth? Do you think they’ll just ignore it? Do you think _Rhea_ will simply allow you to continue being _her sherif_ f?”

“ _Lady_ Rhea!” Catherine snaps. She steps toward the other woman, jabbing an aggressive finger at her. “Her name is _Lady_ Rhea.”

Shamir lifts her chin at Catherine. “Don’t act like this has anything to do with me. You’re just looking out for yourself.”

“What? This-- no. I just… It-- this has nothing to do with me, Shamir,” Catherine stammers. She closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath. When she opens her eyes, she takes another step toward the archer. “You don’t know what you’re messing with. If they catch you, which they will if you win this thing, you will never see the light of day again.”

“I didn’t think the Triumvirate were the type for cruel and unusual punishments.”

“They’re not. But you got Arundel involved now. And the Adrestian Empire. They don’t forgive quickly. I-- we won’t be able to protect you.”

Shamir scoffs. “I don’t need your protection.”

“I know.” Catherine sighs. She steps toward Shamir again. “That’s why I’m asking you to drop this. Throw the tournament. And leave Zanado. Whatever reason you’re here, it can’t be worth it.”

“You have no idea what’s at stake, Catherine,” the archer all but growls.

“You’re right.” Catherine steps forward again, now only a pace away from Shamir. The shorter woman barely even reacts. “But I know what will happen if they catch you. And I… I don’t want that to happen to you.” Her nose scrunches up and her gaze falls from Shamir. “I won’t lose you like that again.”

The Dagdan woman takes a step back now. Catherine looks up at her to see her nose scrunched up and her brow knit, like it always did when she was well and truly livid. “You can’t lose what was never yours.”

“I--” Words fail Catherine. Her thoughts end there and she lets the word hang between them longer than she probably should. “I know.”

Shamir takes another step backward. “I’m winning this tournament.”

“Shamir…”

“And _if_ you do catch me, it will not play out the way you think it will.”

Before Catherine can move to follow her, smoke fills the alleyway in front of her. She takes a step back to not breathe in the foreign substance. Naturally, by the time it clears, Shamir is gone.

* * *

Leonie falls into step alongside Shamir as they both meander through the streets of Zanado. Shamir can feel the tension in her shoulders building, but right now she doesn’t care enough to do anything about it. The tournament will be enough to calm her.

“She should’ve just arrested you,” Leonie thinks aloud. “Why didn’t she just arrest you?”

“Because she’s scared.”

She can feel Leonie staring at her. The younger woman can probably see how tense she is right now. But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that Catherine’s scared, either. It especially doesn’t matter that she’s scared for Shamir. All that matters is winning this tournament.

* * *

After their confrontation, Shamir’s tactic in the rest of the tournament completely flips. She’s given up on her tactic of simply coasting by. She’s outmatching everyone on the pitch except for Ashe, the clear favorite. And the crowd is eating it up. They roar their approval at the supposed underdog tale of the century. She’s also stopped smirking at Catherine. She barely even looks at her. Catherine would prefer a scathing look over this.

The remaining rounds continue in this way until finally it’s just Ashe and Shamir left on the pitch. The young officer is getting frustrated and a bit nervous, but not for the right reasons. He’s just worried about losing. He hasn’t even begun to realize that the woman standing next to him now is Robin Hood. The same person he was supposed to be keeping an eye out for.

Catherine can tell from her closer vantage point now that Rhea and the other Triumvirs have grown a bit more nervous as well. They’re studying Shamir far more critically now. But they’re still not sure, since she’s not outright winning.

And then the shootoff begins, and all those suspicions turn into realizations and cold hard facts.

Ashe shoots first, having been in the lead the whole tournament he’s given the advantage. Every shot he makes on his target, Shamir replicates, and with half as much effort. She makes it obvious, too. Sometimes not looking. Other times, she lets herself get distracted by some bug as it flies past moments before firing. At one point, she even blatantly yawns. It’s after what must be the tenth round of this grueling shootout when Rhea and Catherine make eye contact. It’s that look that tells Catherine it’s time to make the arrest, before Shamir wins this thing.

Catherine nods to let Rhea know she understands. Her gaze flits to Gilbert, who’s already moving to join her on the pitch.

Just as Catherine turns forward, there’s a loud gasp that ripples through the crowd followed immediately by a hush. It doesn’t take long to realize why. Ashe finally hit the bullseye, at three hundred yards out. The youth is staring open-mouthed at his accomplishment.

The tournament is his. Of course, Shamir is allowed to rebuttal, but there’s nothing she can do to best him. Not even if she also gets a bullseye, it won’t matter. He did it first. Which means Catherine can make the arrest without earning the crowd’s ire.

She starts elbowing her way through the crowd, fighting her way to the edge of the pitch. As she reaches the barricade keeping the spectators back, the entire crowd seems to draw in a breath at the same time. This time, there isn’t a hush that follows, but a deafening silence that permeates the space around them.

Shamir has moved away from her own target. She stands before Ashe now, gently prodding the youth until he moves. But that’s not what caused this silence or the spike of fear that shoots up Catherine’s spine. Shamir has removed her jacket. What was once hidden under it is the image of an arachnid, in painful detail, stitched into the back of her shirt. Additionally, a hidden hood had been attached to the shirt, which she has now pulled up over her dark hair. Both the hood and spider are synonymous with Robin Hood. If there was any doubt left, it was beyond clear now that Shamir Nevrand, the foreign entrant in the tournament, is Robin Hood.

A current of excitement rumbles through the crowd as Shamir draws her bow. Catherine leaps the barricade running for the archer. Ashe is backpedaling and searching for the shackles he’d stashed out on the field. Someone in the crowd shrieks. Shamir looses the arrow. It splits Ashe’s.

“Shamir Nevrand!” Catherine bellows. Shamir turns around lazily, regarding Catherine with half-lidded eyes. “In the name of the Triumvirate, you are under arrest.”

She smirks at Catherine, and it becomes clear here and now how royally they’d fucked up. “Call me Robin Hood, Sheriff,” she returns, loud enough for the crowd to hear.

And then chaos erupts.

A ear-splitting explosion goes off far too close to Catherine for comfort. She loses the ground as black, swirling smoke fills the area. It finds her again. She smacks so hard into the field that she leaves an indent.

With a pained groan, she reaches for the edge of the crater she’d formed. She drags herself to her knees despite the burning ache in her side. The sounds of screaming and further explosions is the only motivation she needs to keep moving. It’s her job, her duty, to keep these people safe.

She wills herself to stand, an exerted grunt escaping her lips. She stumbles, nearly falling back to the ground. She manages to steady herself after grabbing onto Thunderbrand. The familiar weapon thrums under her touch in an almost comforting manner.

Swirling black smoke blots out her visage. She grits her teeth and forces herself to take a step forward. Searing pain shoots up her leg as she puts weight on it. She drowns out the cry of pain she wants to entertain with a guttural yell.

“Shamir!” She shouts.

Another step forward and her head starts to swim. This is no normal smoke. It’s doing something to her mind, she knows it. But she has to keep moving.

“Shamir!”

On the next step she goes down. Someone cries out as she falls. She collapses in a heap in the dark smoke, her hands clutching at her stomach. Her eyes start tearing. She shakes her head, the motion only making her mind swim more violently through the haze. She blinks blearily, trying to clear the fog. But it won’t dissipate.

She places a hand on the ground, her other gripping Thunderbrand tighter. Focusing on every muscle in her body, forcing them to contract, she attempts to stand again.

Everything hurts. So much. The pain is so loud and bright that she nearly blacks out. It isn’t until she slams into the dirt again that she realizes she was screaming in pain. She can feel a heaviness settling on her mind and bones. She tries to fight it, tries to stay awake. She knows if she doesn’t, she’ll die here. But would that be so bad? It would be easier than this. Than the pain. Than having to deal with Shamir. Dealing with arresting Shamir. With Shamir hating her. It had to be better, right?

“Hey!” A sharp, angry voice snaps.

Catherine’s eyes flutter open. She didn’t realize she’d closed them.

The light is blinding. Painfully so. She blinks against it, wincing. She tries turning away, but even that is too painful. Then she feels a hand grip her chin tightly. The hand guides her face upwards until she’s staring at a looming shadow over her.

“Catherine!” The voice is familiar, but distant. “Catherine, come back to me.”

She blinks again, reminding herself this isn’t over yet. It’s not time to take the easy way out. She never did before, and she’s not starting now.

“There you are.” It’s Shamir.

Her face comes into focus now. Her visage is sharp and crystal clear despite the darkness around them. As Catherine’s senses return to her, she realizes that the fog is no longer densely cloistered around her. Instead, it stays about two feet back on all sides, roiling just behind an invisible wall.

“Shamir…” Catherine’s voice comes in hoarse.

“Don’t.” Shamir’s tone is sharp. It draws Catherine’s gaze back to her face. The Dagdan woman is scowling something fierce now. “Just don’t.”

Shamir releases Catherine’s chin and moves alongside her. As she does the fog shifts, seemingly moving closer. Catherine stares at the dark tendrils with trepidation. Whatever magic this is, it’s dangerous. It had sapped her will away from her as she laid in it.

When Shamir drags Catherine’s arm over her shoulders, the fog shifts again. Catherine’s eyes widen. The fog isn't staying two feet away from her. It's staying away from Shamir. She turns to her accusingly.

“What did you _do_?” She asks.

The archer doesn’t answer. Not immediately. She hefts Catherine to her feet. And boy, does it hurt. Catherine clutches her side and cries out in pain again.

“You weren’t supposed to be on the field,” Shamir answers. Though, it’s not much of an answer in truth.

Catherine growls in annoyance. Why did everything have to hurt _so much_?

“Where’s Ashe?” Catherine asks.

“He’s fine.”

Catherine grabs Shamir’s shoulder roughly. The motion sends shooting pain up both her arms. “Where is he?”

Shamir levels her with a gaze. “He’s off the field and out of the fog. He’s _fine_.”

Catherine releases her grip on Shamir, but that doesn’t make the pain go away. If anything, it just moves somewhere else. She looks around them at the fog that is rolling out of their way. Out of _Shamir’s_ way. It couldn’t give a shit about Catherine.

“What is this?” She asks the archer.

Shamir grumbles. She adjusts her grip on Catherine. The pain it causes forces a groan from the sheriff. She’s convinced Shamir’s doing this on purpose.

“Some dark magic.”

Catherine stares at her. “You don’t know.”

“I don’t need to know.”

Catherine’s foot catches on something as they move. It feels like someone is trying to rip her leg off. Her pained cry quickly transitions into another growl and she burrows her face into Shamir’s neck. The archer’s movements stall a moment. Catherine only holds on tighter as the pain gets brighter and stronger.

“The hell did you do to me, Shamir?”

“It wasn’t me…”

Catherine squeezes her eyes shut against the pain, still burrowed into Shamir’s neck. “Yes it was!” She grumbles. “If this is one of your tricks, then you did it.”

“I did the fog, yeah. But you weren’t supposed to be out here.”

A burning pain arcs up her side now. Catherine shudders, jerking away from it and even closer to Shamir. “Sounds a lot like an excuse,” she breathes.

Shamir’s silent for a moment. Catherine doesn’t fully realize how long, so distracted by the pain taking over her whole being to notice. “You’re right,” Shamir admits. “I’m sorry.”

But Catherine barely hears it over the roaring pain consuming her body. She digs her fingers into Shamir’s shoulders. She grinds her teeth so hard they might as well turn to dust. Another pained cry escapes her lips. It quickly shifts into a wail as they reach what feels like a literal wall. Like she's trying to walk through it. The hard way. With her face so far buried into Shamir’s neck, she has no way of knowing what’s going on, but she doesn’t need to know. The arcing pain ravaging her body is enough to make her wish it would all just stop.

And then it does.

Her breathing comes in ragged. Her raging limbs slowly unclench. The wall is gone. And so is the darkness of the fog around them. Slowly, and a bit fearfully, she lifts her head from Shamir.

They’re on the far side of the pitch now. The black, swirling, all-consuming fog at their back.

Shamir is staring at her out the corner of her eye. Catherine can’t quite place the look, her mind still fuddled from whatever the fuck that fog was. She attempts to extricate herself from Shamir’s grasp. But the moment she puts weight on her legs, the pain returns. It’s not as bad or as loud, but it’s enough to scare her.

She lets out a cry of pain, this one much softer than all the others. As her knees buckle, Shamir catches her once more.

“You’re gonna be hurt for a while,” Shamir tells her.

Catherine glares up at her, though it feels hollow. “Why, Shamir?”

They stare at each other. The air between them both stagnant and electrified at the same time. Shamir’s shoulders rise and fall dramatically.

“Because we had to.”

Catherine shakes her head. It’s a bad idea and she knows it immediately when her head starts to swim. “No. Why come back for me?”

Shamir’s jaw sets. She tears her gaze away from Catherine. She kneels down on the grass. Catherine has no choice but to come with her, unable to stand on her own. White hot pain shoots up her spin again and her muscles clench reflexively until she touches down on the grass. Shamir helps Catherine lie on her back. Her eyes threaten to close the moment Shamir is longer holding her up. The archer releases the sheriff and rocks back onto her heels.

“Because I won’t lose you, either,” Shamir says, still not looking at Catherine. And for the briefest of moments, Catherine lets herself believe her.

“Shamir,” Catherine pleads. She’s not sure what for. To make the pain go away? Possibly. For her to stay? Maybe...

But of course she doesn’t. She gets to her feet.

“Shamir,” Catherine tries again, but the darkness is returning. Not the darkness of the fog. A different darkness. A familiar one. A far less terrifying one.

Without looking at the fallen sheriff, Shamir walks away.

Catherine attempts to call her name again, but the word never leaves her tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?
> 
> come say hi on twitter/instagram (@bridgetserdock) or tumblr (@bridgetserdocksketches)

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts?


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